


Beauty and the Beast!lock

by Stormcat385



Category: Beauty and the Beast - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Anthea || Madame de la Mûre, Bartholomew - original character - Freeform, BatB!AU, Beauty and the Beast, Happy Ending, John || Lumiere, Kinda, Lestrade || Chapaeu, Mary || Babette, Molly || Belle, Moriarty || Gaston || Enchanter, Mrs. Hudson || Mrs. Potts, Mycroft || Cogsworth, Sebastian Moran || Lefou, Sherlock || Beast, established Sherlock/Molly, eventual Sherlock/Molly, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12553600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormcat385/pseuds/Stormcat385
Summary: Once upon a time in a far away land, a young prince lived in a shining castle. A prince of everything finds himself cursed to become a beast of nothing. When a fateful night brings a beautiful young girl to his castle, the two lonely souls might just find each other. After time, the two grow closer, but there is still the shred of doubt. For who could ever learn to love a beast?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first officially posted fanfiction (on here and everywhere) and I'm so excited!! I hope you enjoy:) I treasure every single kudo and comment<3
> 
> I, in no way, take credit for any of the quotes that you’ll find, from either Sherlock or Beauty and the Beast, even though I have added my own dialogue.

"Mary and I are going out tonight, so we won't see you for a while." John picked up his keys and looked at Sherlock, waiting for him to respond. Sherlock was heavily nestled into his armchair, his fingers steepled under his chin, and his brows beginning to furrow. "Be safe while we're gone," tried John, wondering if Sherlock even realised he was there. He exited the flat and hoped his friend would take care of himself.

Sherlock was deep into his mind palace… too deep.

"Brother dear, it's time." were words he heard his brother say that stirred him. He turned around and saw John dressed in court-royalty French attire.

"John?" Sherlock asked, wondering why his friend was dressed in such ridiculous clothing.

"Master, we should get going," he replied. Sherlock saw in the shadows that Mycroft was standing nearby too, looking at his ticking pocket watch.

"The guests are here," he said, stepping into the light, revealing that he, too, was wearing the same clothing style. Sherlock stood up and followed the two into a huge ballroom. When he stepped into the light, he saw his clothes: the same court-styled coat and vest. The vest was a glimmering gold and matched the rich blue coat embroidered with the same gold. He had white tights on and neat black shoes. A ridiculous powdered wig replaced his raven curls. Standing patiently in the ballroom were a hundred women, the hips of their dresses wider than the span of their shoulders. Mycroft and John led Sherlock to a royal seat at the front of the room.

As Sherlock walked, he found several of his friends around the room. Next to a tea cart was Mrs. Hudson. She was, with no surprise, working on a fresh cuppa as Archie bounced excitedly next to her. Mycroft took his place next to the throne, a beautifully dressed Anthea by his side. Sherlock even could've sworn he saw Mary in a slim black, feathery dress before she and John disappeared behind a doorway. Sherlock continued looking around, wondering where he was, and where Baker Street had gone off to.

The sound of a harpsichord began once Sherlock sat down. In one swift motion, the dancers began their pre-choreographed routine. Sherlock watched in amusement. Nobody knew, but he loved dancing and watching people dance. How the movements shifted together brought him joy, and soon he found himself smiling at the dancers before him.

On the other side of the room, and immense gust of wind pushed open the tall castle doors just as Sherlock was at the peak of his enjoyment. Sherlock bounded from his chair and stepped down the few steps as dancers gasped and huddled away behind him. An old man came hobbling in. From underneath the hood, Sherlock could deduce his age was at _least_ 80, he had low metabolism, a gardening habit, and spilt liquids on his cape. The feeble man lifted a shivering hand, holding up a withering rose.

With a thunderous roar, Sherlock bellowed in laughter. The court company laughed with him.

"A rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold?" the old man croaked, lifting his head and showing his face, sagging from wrinkles.

Sherlock was repulsed, refusing the old man's petty gift and turning him away. The man's voice fleshed out from underneath his hood as he said, "Be warned Prince: do not be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within."

Sherlock scoffed again, pointing towards the door the man first entered, and told him to go. As the old man lifted his hands to remove his hood, they became strong hands, and when the hood was removed, the man's face lost its wrinkles and became full and heartless. His eyes sunk back, the rich brown colour looking black with a lack of pity as they retreated. He rose from the ground, growing taller and taller until Sherlock fell to his knees, partly from fear, partly from how far he had to lean back. "Moriarty," Sherlock whispered in horror, finally recognising who the man was.

"You don't know what you got yourself into, Sherlock. _You're not on the side of the angels_." Moriarty thrusted his hand at Sherlock, and he felt a surge of pain through every cell in his body. He fell on his hands and yelled in pain, each shout becoming more like a roar. His hands grew, and his nails hardened as they became sharp and pointed. His head ached as horns pushed their way up to the surface and curled as they grew. His back felt larger and fur grew all over his skin. His teeth lengthened and shot pain all over his mouth.

Sherlock laid on the floor, crying from pain as the enchanter Moriarty walked over to him and kneeled down, lowering his face right next to Sherlock's. With a horrible smile, he produced the flower once more, this time it being a small bud not yet bloomed.

With an observing face, Moriarty watched Sherlock closely. "No," he mumbled, seemingly to himself, "you're not an angel. _You're a beast_." He dropped the rose, stood up, and walked away. "You have until the last petal falls, Sherlock."

Sherlock crawled towards him, choking out his words, "Don't leave me here. Turn me back. Undo this!"

Moriarty smiled as he watched Sherlock crawl after him. He crouched down again and said, "Sherlock the only way you're getting out this is by proving it to me."

"Proving what?" Sherlock sputtered.

" _You're on the side of the angels_."

Moriarty stood up and walked out of the castle, leaving the rose he had offered and a curse upon all who remained in the castle. For those who had left, he gave them the curse of forgetting all that happened.

Sherlock confined himself to a room—the west wing, he deduced. He overturned several tables and bed stands, shattering a few mirrors and scoffing off the silly superstitions John would make sure to remind him of.

A shaking voice came from the doorway. "Master?"

Sherlock turned around. It was John. He leapt at him, grabbing his stupid looking French coat and shouting into his face. "What do you want John!!?!"

His poor friend wailed quietly. "Something is happening, Master. I can't find your brother. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or Archie."

Sherlock dropped him. "Where are they!!? Why aren't you looking for them!!?"

John whimpered on the ground, too scared to sit up from his bowed position. "That's what I'm telling you Master. I can't find anyone in this castle."

Sherlock looked down at him. "'I'? You mean you're the only one left?" He saw John nod. Sherlock thought for a moment. "Leave me," he finally said.

John stood up, mumbling, "Yes Master."  
Sherlock was already at the window. "And don't call me that," he ordered over his shoulder. "I almost prefer being called 'Beast.'"

He heard the door shut behind him. He was alone. Out of his shredded coat, Sherlock pulled out the rose the enchanter had left him. He tossed it over to the only table left standing. Grunting angrily, he turned away, but he heard a small gleaming noise that turned him back around. It was the rose. It was standing vertically; floating in midair as it hung above the small table. As a cold breeze blew through the open windows, Sherlock scrambled for something to put over the rose, to keep it from dying to prolong his own life. He found a glass dome and put it on the table, being careful not to nudge the rose or do anything to it. Once it was on, Sherlock stepped back and looked at it.

 _Such a delicate little thing_ , he thought. _And to think, my life rests upon it. I had everything, and now I rely on this stupid plant! Nothing must happen to it. I need to keep it safe at all costs._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italicising keeps getting erased when I put it into here, so I'm sorry about that. Bear with me.
> 
> For the majority of this fanfiction, I have the new Beauty and the Beast movie pictured in my head. I adored Lumiere, Cogsworth, and Plumette's redesign, so I have them in mind as I write. And Kevin Kline as Maurice. Literally loved him so much.

Many years passed after that, but for some, they were quicker than for others. Merely ten years had went by. For those who remained in the castle, they were eternities. For the neighbouring town, they were a happy, flourishing ten years.

The nearest village was in a festive state. This year was prosperous, so it was bustling with people. Every morning, as the clock tower chimed eight, a beautiful young girl opened her house door and skipped down the steps, a basket in hand. As all the windows to the neighbouring houses opened, the day began with many greetings.

Molly Hooper bounced through the town. "Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!" she cried happily, waving a friendly hello to those passing by.

"Why, good morning Molly!" called a baker, setting out his morning loaves. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"The book shop," Molly answered, a little bashfully. She was the only in the whole town who read anatomy books for fun, so everybody else in the town thought she was, well... _odd_.

"Well, have a good time," replied the baker awkwardly. Nobody really knew how to respond to Molly's unique quirks, but Molly didn't mind. She wasn't big on talking anyway.

The rest of the town said their hellos as she passed by, buying a loaf of bread and a couple eggs, until she reached the library. The librarian looked up as her entrance rang the small bell above the door.

"Ah, hello Molly!" he said happily, getting up from behind his desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I've come to return the book I borrowed," Molly answered. She passed him the book and headed straight towards the bookshelves behind him. The librarian laughed.

"Finished already?"

Molly had stepped up onto the ladder, scanning the titles of the books for something she hadn't read yet. "I couldn't put it down! Have you got anything new? I was thinking something about post-mortems," she said, a little embarrassed. She had such a strange interest that was so different from everybody else in the town. The only people who really encouraged her fascination were her father and the librarian.

"Not since yesterday," he said with a smile, putting the returned book back in its place.

Molly smiled. "That's alright." She slid the ladder over to the fiction section, interested in trying something new. She had read and reread the science books a hundred times over. Today was a day for change. She hummed quietly as she scanned the titles. She pulled out a big one.

 _Grimm's Fairytales_ , read the title. She handed it over. "How about this one?"

The librarian took it with curiosity. "You've never showed an interest in fiction books," he remarked, fixing his glasses on his nose.

"No," Molly agreed, hopping down from the ladder, "but I thought today was a day for change."

The librarian nodded and handed back the book as she headed out the door. "Enjoy the book, Molly."

Molly skipped through town, her new book in hand, and sat down on the edge of the town fountain. She opened up the book and skimmed through the index before deciding to just start from the beginning.

She read the title out loud, "Beauty and the Beast," but the rest silently.

_Once upon a time as a merchant set off for market, he asked each of his three daughters what she would like as a present on his return. The first daughter wanted a brocade dress, the second a pearl necklace, but the third, whose name was Beauty, the youngest, prettiest and sweetest of them all, said to her father:_

_"All I'd like is a rose you've picked specially for me!"_

Molly was already entranced when her imagination was swept away by loud footsteps and the smell of cooked deer and sweat.

"Why, hello Molly," said a cooing voice. Molly looked up over her book, working hard not to furrow her eyebrows, and forced a smile as she closed her book.

"Bonjour Monsieur James," Molly said pleasantly. James Moriarty had been trying foolishly to win Molly's heart ever since her and her father moved here several years ago. He sat down next to her, and straightened his red coat which glimmered with many brass buttons. He puffed himself out, thinking that would trick her into thinking that she actually liked him.

"What book is that you're reading? Another book on humans and insides and... stuff?" he asked, leaning closely into her.

"No," she said with a kind smile, but still holding her ground. "It's called Grimm's Fairytales. I was just starting the first story when you interrupted."

"Ah, Grimm's Fairytales," he said to himself, snatching the book from Molly and beginning to walk away before turning back after a few steps. "I've read one of those. Handles and Grottel I think it was. I didn't like it. There was no good villain! Every fairytale needs a good old-fashion villain. Evil baker witch didn't cut it for me I guess." He tossed the book over his shoulder and Molly scrambled to get it out of the mud he had just dropped it in.

She resigned to a laugh as she wiped the mud off the book with her apron. "James you are positively primeval."

He affectionately put a hand on her back—a little too intimate for Molly—and led her in a direction she didn't want to go. "Why thank you, Molly," he beamed with pride. "Say, why don't we stop by my place and take a look at my trophies."

Molly spun out of his touch. "Maybe some other time." She speedily walked away towards her house, hoping that James wouldn't choose to follow her. James wasn't always the easiest to be around. In fact, he was _never_ easy to be around. He was self-centred, pushy, arrogant—

Molly looked up from her angry train of thought and was immediately calmed down by the sight of her cozy home. She could tell her father was home: their horse was wandering around the front garden instead of being tied up in the stables. Molly stroked the horse's nose as she stepped up the porch steps and entered the house.

Sketches, inventions, and half-eaten lunches were strewn about the place. Anybody who came over called their house "messy," but Molly just couldn't see it. Surely they always meant to say "cozy" or "homely."

At the workbench sat her father, softly humming a tune that Molly recognised from her childhood.

Bartholomew Hooper was an incredibly caring man, with a heart too big for his own good. Molly teased him about giving away to the needy what he didn't even own. They weren't the wealthiest home, but they still lived comfortably.

Bartholomew was an older man with full, wiry white hair on his head and chin. A pair of small spectacles sat on the edge of his nose. They always helped Molly determine whether he was saying something sarcastically or not, as he always looked over them if he was. His hands were rough from working with jagged gears, but delicate from working with a such a small art. Molly could never think of a time he raised his voice at her, and if he did, it was because they were playing doctor and he would cry out for help from "Doctor Molly Hooper." She would giggle and run up to him to ask him, "What's wrong, papa?"

"Oh dear," he would answer, dramatically clutching his chest, "I seem to be suffering of a broken heart! Only a kiss could cure me!" and he would lean down to her. She would kiss his cheek, and giggle. Then he would scoop her up and lay kisses on her cheeks until she cried, "Stop papa! Your beard tickles!"

All this happened in their house in Paris. They had moved when Molly's mother died. He was never as playful after that happened, but he was still just as kind.

Bartholomew hummed quietly as he worked on a long-time project of his. As Molly walked closer, she saw that it was a ballerina spinning slowly on one foot, straightening out her other leg every so often. A music box was worked into the craft and played a charming melody. She could hear that the song and her father's humming matched.

"Is that the song mama used to sing to me?" asked Molly, making her father jump.

"I-I'm sorry, Molly, I didn't hear you come in," bumbled her father, rushing to put everything away and cover it up.

"Why don't you want me seeing it? You've always been so proud of your work and let me look at it." Molly crouched down next to her father.

He looked at her sadly and swallowed before saying, "It was supposed to be your birthday present."

Molly laughed and stood up. "Papa, my birthday isn't for several months. Why are you working on it so soon? I know you can finish those quicker than that." She sat down on a nearby bench and watched him pack away his things.

"I wanted to make sure it was perfect," he answered quietly.

He seemed so sad, and Molly was about to ask him what troubled him before he bursted with a short laugh. "What?" Molly asked.

He looked at her over his glasses. "Sir Moriarty came to visit today."

He let out a hearty laugh as Molly groaned and stood up.

"What did he say?"

"Oh, just the usual. That you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen and he is the most fitting man for someone like you."

"He wishes," Molly laughed. She took out the bread and eggs she bought that morning from her basket and set them out to cook. Every evening, Molly and her father shared a merry meal together, even if there wasn't much on the table. They would discuss her visits to the library and endless encounters with Moriarty, and her father's new inventions and various glances he would receive from the townsfolk whenever he left their home. Not once did Molly feel completely welcome in their village. No matter what she or her father did, every little thing was either strangely different or wrong to the others. Their meal went quiet as they both thought of this.

"Papa," Molly said quietly, "do you think we're odd?"

Bartholomew put his food down and took Molly's hands in his own. "My sweet daughter, we do live in a small town... with small minded people... You're never going to be able to please everybody, and you're just going to have to live with that. You just need to wait to find the right person who will love you just as you are."

Molly smiled sweetly and said, "I already have." Bartholomew looked at her, startled, and he prayed she hadn't changed her mind about Moriarty. Molly grabbed his hand and smiled, "You." Her father smiled and she realised his panic and laughed. "Don't worry, papa, I wasn't talking about James."

The Hoopers finished their meal happily and set to bed, as Bartholomew had to set out early the next morning.


	3. Chapter 3

As the sun was rising, Bartholomew was preparing to set out to sell what he could at the market the next town over. Nobody bought or even enjoyed looking at his inventions here, so he had to travel every other day so he and Molly could get by.

Molly saddled up their horse Philippe as her father hitched the cart in the back. Bartholomew hoisted himself up onto the cart and took the reins Molly was holding for him. She rested her hands and chin on his knee as he smiled down at her.

"Is there anything you want me to get you from town?" he asked. She pursed her lips in thought; she remembered the girl in her story who had asked for a single rose.

"A rose," answered Molly with a sweet smile. Bartholomew frowned.

"Just a rose? Nothing else? No fancy dress? No pretty jewellery?"

Molly laughed and walked back to their porch. "Just a rose. Besides, we both know we couldn't afford a fancy dress."

Bartholomew nodded and sat up straight. "A rose it is, then." He snapped the reins. "I will see you tomorrow, Molly. Take care of yourself. Don't let Moriarty snatch you up while I'm gone!" He waved behind him as Molly laughed and waved farewell.

Another day passed and Molly Hooper sat peacefully at her house with a book in front of her face. She had long since finished the first story in her book, but she didn't exceed any more because she kept rereading the first story. Even in the past two days, Molly had already read the first story several times through.

She sat lounging on a large chair, halfway through the story.

_The merchant hugged his daughter._

_"I never did doubt your love for me. For the moment I can only thank you for saving my life." So Beauty was led to the castle. The Beast, however, had quite an unexpected greeting for the girl. Instead of menacing doom as it had done with her father, it was surprisingly pleasant._

There was a knock at the door and Molly briefly considered leaving it unanswered before obliging and getting up to answer it.

James Moriarty stood leaning with a hand on the doorway. Molly gave a forced, pleasant smile.

"James, what a pleasant surprise." He invited himself in, and Molly had to stop herself from hitting him with her book.

"Isn't it," he replied matter-of-factly. He puffed his chest out and gave one of his smiles that sent the girls of the village swooning. He gave a small laugh, "You know, Molly," he continued, leaning closely into her, "there isn't a girl in town who wouldn't _love_ to be in your shoes."

Isn't there, Molly thought, and decided not to point out the fact that she was barefoot.

Molly saw James quickly check himself in the mirror before saying proudly, "I want you to become my wife. We're both so perfect for each other! Imagine it, Molly: a rustic hunting lodge; my latest kill roasting on the fire; my lovely little wife massaging my feet while the little ones play on the floor with the dogs. Vision of perfection! All you need to do is say yes!"

Molly kept trying to back away from him but he kept following her and trying to corner her. He eventually pinned her to the door and leaned in close, only for Molly to open to door and toss him out. She slammed the door behind her as he stumbled out onto her porch, his dignity not quite intact.

Molly sighed furiously as she leaned against the door and tried to calm her thumping heart. She worried he wouldn't leave without either a yes or a kiss!! Through the door Molly could hear James talking to his little friend, Sebastian, about how it went.

"I've got her hooked, Seb," she heard him coo matter-of-factly, "She just doesn't know it yet."

"Yea right I don't!" Molly almost ripped open the door and yelled at them. She couldn't believe the most over-dressed, self-absorbed guy in town was the only person who liked her—and pursued her with fearless passion!! Why couldn't she be crushed on by one of the nicer guys in town? like Tom, the village butcher? At least he respected Molly and didn't treat her like a trophy.

From the window, Molly could eventually see James and Sebastian make their way down her porch steps. It was only after they were out of sight when she dared to step outside.

Molly leaned against the porch beam, thinking, and scoffed to herself. "Me: the wife of that boorish, brainless—!!"

Whenever Molly had gotten overly frustrated, her father had told her to draw a picture; make up a new invention for him to work on; ride Philippe, feed and water him; just something to keep her busy enough to calm her down and let out her anger. She took a slow breath and went back inside, taking a sheet of paper and small piece of charcoal and sat down to draw.

By the time she had stopped being angry, she was too interested in her drawing to stop. She had several pieces of paper about her, each depicting a different vision she had of the Beast from her story. As she sat back and looked at them all for a moment, she took out three more sheets. This time, she began to draw what she imagined him to look like as a human.

When she finished, she had one depiction with the same features, just human-like: a broad nose, heavy eyebrows over dark and sunken eyes, full lips, and a square face; the other had him more gentle-looking: a long face with a full, rounded nose, thin and wide lips, and sincere eyes. Molly started another one. This time, his face was thin and long; his eyes were hurt and angry, but hid a caring man underneath eyebrows that were thick, but neatly formed. His lips were full, but beautiful. The fur on his head had turned into long raven curls that fell over his pale forehead. As Molly looked at her drawing, she fell in love.

Thundering hooves and an exhausted whinny from outside Molly's house made her look out the window. Philippe slowed to a stop in front of the water trough and drank desperately. Molly rushed outside.

"Philippe?" She checked his bridle. The reigns had been snapped and his yoke was bent enough for him to have slipped out of the cart. Her father was nowhere to be seen. "Where's papa?" she asked. "Where is he?? You have to take me to him!!"

Without another moment's hesitation, Molly leapt up onto the towering horse and swung over her leg, adjusting herself to hold on tight as she led him back from where he came. Wind was screaming past Molly's ears. Bartholomew had never let Molly go too fast on Philippe. He was always afraid she would fall and get hurt. Now it was Molly's turn to worry.

Philippe sped into a forest, which quickly turned into a winter wonderland. The trees became grey and were covered in snow. It was the middle of June; how was there so much snow?

As the air grew colder, it became more difficult to see. The freezing wind stung Molly's eyes and she could only pray as she squeezed them shut that Philippe knew where he was going. After several minutes of riding, Philippe halted with a distressed whinny. Molly opened her red and watery eyes then, taking in what was before her.

Looming high and shadowy against the grey sky was the biggest castle she had ever seen. It was magnificent: towering turrets surrounding the castle with peaked roofs that reached forever into the dull sky, and looked like the claws of a mighty beast coming up from below. Between the wings of the castle were delicate bridges, looking so small and thin from where Molly stood that the barest wind might crumble them. On the tallest towers were gaping windows, black inside as far as Molly could tell, but she felt there must be something like a beast looking out of one and watching her.

Philippe moved again, closer to the monstrous front doors, and Molly remembered what she was here for. This wasn't like an adventure in one of her books; this was real. Her father was inside, freezing, starving, being tortured— who knows? She dropped from Philippe, huddling against herself for warmth as the snow continued raging. The size of the front doors only continued to grow as she got closer to them. Without thinking, Molly pushed open the door, unarmed.

It was silent. Eerie. Haunting. The creak of the door slowly being pushed open echoed throughout the entire castle. Even after the doors stopped, she could still hear the noise beginning to reach the far towers.

As she entered, she stopped in awe of the interior. It was just as marvellous as the outside. Before her was a great open room, with pillars holding the floor above them. There were wings on either side, each with their own fireplace; both of which burned dimly and sadly, as if they were tired of doing so. At the end of the room, opposite her, was a grand staircase, each step as wide as the room itself. Two separate staircases broke off of it, turning opposite ways and leading to more mysteries of the castle. _Somewhere in here_ , Molly thought to herself, her heart aching at the thought, _my father is all alone, freezing and possibly dying._

No matter how quietly she tried to walk, her footsteps were maximised by the hollow rooms, which turned her mousy tip-toe into a loud march.

"Papa?" she called.

"Papa? Papa? Papa?" answered the echo, even louder than she was. _If there is a beast in this castle_ , she thought, _it sure knew she was here now_.

 _If there is a beast in this castle_ , Molly thought, more sternly, _she could hear it talking_. She paused. Listened. Waited. Whispers filtered quietly, almost unnoticeably, and echoed through the empty halls. For the most part, they were just senseless whispers, until she could just barely pick out two words: "A girl."

Whatever lives here, it knows she's there.

Molly continued delving into the castle, occasionally calling out for her father and waiting in silence to see if she could hear anything. As the endless corridors seemed to twist behind her, she finally came to what she could only guess was the dungeon. Only one of the cells was closed, and as Molly approached it, she could see a huddling, shivering figure laying in a pitiful ball on the floor.

"Papa!?" Molly cried, and her father jolted. Shakily, he sat up and crawled over to the door, and she could see his face was thin and hollow, his skin a ghostly white. "Oh papa, what happened to you!?"

"Molly, listen to me: you need to leave. Forget about me, just get yourself out of here!"

Molly started working to get the door open. "I'm not leaving without you!"

Bartholomew's hand reached through the iron gate –his hand ice cold to the touch– and looked at Molly with such fear in his eyes it startled her. He whispered in a horrified, strained whisper, "Molly I'm serious. You can't stay here. Leave while it still doesn't know you're here!"

"What's here!? Papa, who did this to you!?"

"What are you doing here!!?" boomed a roaring voice behind Molly, and she screamed. Bartholomew let out another "Run Molly!!" but instead she gripped her father's hand and put on a brave face.

"Who's there?" she called out, eyeing the figure in the shadows. It was huge, with a large back, it's head hung low enough for it to not be shone in the light.

"The Master of this castle," it said, it's voice calm and low, but demanding and merciless.

"Let my father go. Can't you see? He's sick!" Molly pleaded.

"Then he shouldn't have trespassed here!!" it roared.

A moment of tense silence passed between them. Molly still couldn't see what it looked like.

"Come into the light," she demanded. It grunted and looked away. A fiery challenge sparked in Molly that she was unfamiliar with, which made her grab a nearby candelabra and march over to the beast, holding the light close to his face so she could see it.

He turned to her and scowled, his eyes ablaze and she took in his features. She gasped, and almost dropped the candle. Not because of fear, but because he looked exactly like the portrait she had drawn of the Beast from her book.

He straightened out and towered over her, light covering his face. Molly gaped up at him; everything was exactly the same as her portrait except for one detail: she hadn't given any thought to colour. She looked up at him now and gasped at his stark blue eyes that looked human despite the rest of him.

The Beast glowered, and Molly saw the protruding teeth hanging over his lower lip.

Then words came from his lips, "Have you finished staring?" His voice shook the room, even despite being quiet; it was a deep roar from the back of his throat that left Molly trembling from the quality of it. He peered at her again, running those human eyes quickly down as he scanned her. "Only child, aspiring doctor– no, pathologist, outcast, bookworm, single, 28."

"I'm sorry, what?" she found her voice and asked.

"Leave this castle now," the Beast barked. "You have no place here!"

"Please let my father go!" Molly cried, gripping her father's hand again. "He didn't do anything!"

"He intruded into my palace, ate my food, and clipped one of my roses."

"I was the one who asked for the rose! Please don't hurt him because of me!"

"There's nothing you can do!"

"Wait!!" There was a beat. "Take me instead!"

Bartholomew cried out as the Beast snorted, turning away, but eventually turned back and shone a glint of wonder in his eye under the candlelight.

"You would... take his place?"

" _If_ I did, would you let him go?"

"Yes... but... you must promise to stay here forever. Do you promise?"

Molly stepped forward, closer to the towering Beast, as her father clutched the edge of her dress through the barred door. His sobbing was the only sound at the moment.

Molly looked up bravely at him. Her father would live, he could continue to make things and sell them, bringing his lovely art to the rest of the world. Oh how Molly wished she could see what he would make. Perhaps if the Beast where kind enough –kinder than he was at the moment– he would let her father visit and show her all he had made in her absence. She held on to that hope: that maybe she could see her father again after all of this.

"I do," she answered.

"Done!!" the Beast roared, walking past her.

Molly dropped to her knees and sunk her face into her hands as it became reality. Who was she kidding? She would hardly ever get to see her father again, and she would be trapped here with this beast. The Beast opened the cell, and Bartholomew rushed out, gripping Molly tightly and crying in despair when the Beast ripped him from her. He was dragged down the stairs, and Molly could hear his desperate screams, chased by her echoing sobs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was researching stuff for this, I found out that "Anthe" is an actual city/town/village thing in France, thus the comment from Anthea. And in case some people don't know, Anthea is always texting on her blackberry phone, so I made her a blackberry farmer;)

Molly must have cried all night and fallen asleep on the stone floor. She sat up, groaning and rubbing her aching shoulders, and looked around. The stones around her reminded her that she was still here.

"Ah! She's up!" came a voice. It was so unlike the Beast's voice: it was high, joyous, and full of love and hope. Molly turned around, not knowing what she should expect to see. There at the top of the stairs was a small candelabra that balanced on two stands, with drooping arms that held unlit candles. But the drooping arms soon swung up, and the candle tipped on one of its stands and moved forward. It was then that Molly realised the candle was alive! She gasped and stood up, backing away from it as it walked toward her.

"Do not be afraid, mademoiselle!" it said in a friendly tone. "You've had enough of that from last night! You must forgive the Master. He can sometimes come off as a bit... forward."

"What are you?" Molly asked, her curiosity peaked too much to be frightened by it. She knelt down, and the candle got closer. She could now see a face integrated into the design. It moved easily, as if he weren't made of bronze, but flesh!

"Ah, forgive me. Where are my manners? I am John Lumiere Watson! Here to serve you, mademoiselle." He did a lovely bow. "And what might be the name of our lovely guest?"

Flustered by his compliments and courtesies, she answered, "Molly Hooper."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful girl!" John responded as he took her hand on top of one of his candles and kissed her hand.

 _How charming_ , Molly thought as she blushed. _The Beast isn't at all like him. The Beast isn't even like the one in my book! At least_ he _was kind and gentle._

"John would you stop flirting with the guest and show her to her room?" came another voice. This one wasn't as jolly as John's, but it wasn't menacing and rude like the Beast's. This one's was steady and consistent, as if it ran on clockwork.

As the voice heaved itself up the last step, Molly saw that that's exactly what it was. The smooth voice was from an articulately designed mantle clock who seemed less-than-amused at John's bounciness.

"Oh come on, Mycroft! The girl needs a friendly face!" John defended.

"And you think that is you?" Mycroft shot back.

"Well it is certainly not you, my friend."

"What are you two?" Molly interrupted. She wasn't frightened by a talking clock and candle, but she would like an explanation.

"We're stuffed fish on a wall. What does it look like we are?" answered Mycroft blatantly. "Now hurry up and follow us. We've already wasted all morning." He turned around and waddled to the steps with Molly and John in tow.

In the morning light, the castle didn't seem as restricting. As sunshine filtered through the windows, she could imagine how beautiful it would be with crowds of beautiful dresses and handsome suits... and a little bit of dusting.

"This place is beautiful," Molly said as she looked around the large hallways. These corridors where bigger than any house she had ever been in. There were huge tapestries and suits of armour against the walls, standing guard and feeling oddly alive.

She couldn't tell where they were going, but they sure weren't heading for the front door.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked finally.

"Well, the master says you cannot go home, so he thought you might want a more comfortable room!" chimed John, who did a delightful turn to face her as he spoke.

"'He' thought? Or you thought? That Beast didn't seem to want to give me anything –even my own father."

Mycroft and John shared a hesitant glance.

"You might want to refrain from calling him a 'Beast,'" remarked Mycroft.

"The Master is not as bad as he seems. I know he can be mean and scary, but he can also be charming and gentle!" cheered John.

"Well I'd like to see him be that more often," Molly said, seriously, but with a smile. "Surely he can't expect to yell at everyone and just get his way."

There was one more look exchanged between her two escorts, but this one she couldn't decipher.

Mycroft finally said, "This way please," and no more was spoken among the three.

The 'room' that they led Molly into she would have easily called a 'tower.' She gaped up at the high ceiling that was painted a soft pink shade, inset with gold. She almost couldn't see the painted Cupid's, clouds, and Angels on the ceiling because it was so high. As she looked around, the rest of the room was nothing short of magnificent.

Her bed looked like it was fit for a queen, with lush pillows and duvets and the posts framed and draped with muslin. The windows were almost as tall as the room, and the glass looked freshly polished.

Only one thing: there was a generous layer of dust on everything. Molly couldn't help but cough as she took a deep breath.

"Oh dear," muttered John. He turned to Molly with an innocent raise of his hands. "We were not expecting guests!"

There was a wisp of white something that fluttered in front of Molly's face for a moment. It flew around her and hovered in front of her face. Molly finally saw what it was: a lovely white feather duster with wings on the handle. As she looked closer, she could see a small beak and two eyes.

"Do not worry," it said—a female's voice. "I'll get this place cleaned up in no time." She flitted throughout the room, swiping her feathered tail across the dusty surfaces and wiping them clean. When the job was done, she floated down to where John had jumped up on the bed and was spun when she landed gently in his arms.

"This plan of yours is dangerous," she whispered when they stopped.

"Mary, I would do anything to kiss you again," he replied.

Mycroft cleared his throat and John jumped down from the bed as Mary flew out of the room. Molly smiled as she took another look around the room. There was a small vanity desk and a tall dresser that stood across the room, and she reached out her hand to peek at the beautiful, royal clothes she guessed were inside when the drawers slowly opened on their own. She gasped and jumped away.

A smooth, quiet voice came from it. "You mustn't touch things that aren't yours, mademoiselle," she said calmly. There were small drapes in the cupboard, and they moved accordingly like a face would.

"Ah, forgive me," Molly replied bashfully. "I guess I got too excited."

"You mustn't blame her," added John. He looked up at Molly. "May I present to you Madame de la Mûre: Anthea, the head dresser and finest assistant in this castle!"

Molly turned around when she heard Mycroft quietly mutter, "Finest assistant in all of _Paris_ , you mean." She eyed him, signalling to him that he'd been caught, and smiled when she saw him fiddling with an open gear on his torso.

"It is nice to see a girl in the castle again. It is nice to meet you," Anthea said pleasantly.

"We will give you time to get dressed mademoiselle, then we will see you downstairs for dinner!" said John, making his way out the door.

"Dinner? With you? But I thought I was a prisoner."

"The Master is powerful and scary, yes, but you still need to eat. We will see you downstairs when you are ready," answered John, beginning to close the door. Mycroft gave a helpless look to Anthea before following him out.  
"Till the next time, Anthe," he said.

"Farewell, my Mycroft," she answered, and the door was shut. There was a beat of silence.

"Lady of the Blackberry," remarked Molly. She turned around to face Anthea. "That's what he called you."

"Yes. I used to work on the castle's blackberry farm, but Mycroft employed me as head dresser, the daft old man. He could name a city after me if he wanted."

Molly smiled and sat down on the stool next to the vanity. "You two...?" she asked, and saw Anthea smile.

"We met on the castle's farm. I was delivering blackberries to the Master when I quite literally bumped into him. I smeared blackberries all over my dress, but Mycroft let me wear one of the spare dresses they keep for guests. Of course he couldn't help me get dressed, so when I came out of the room with the dress on correctly, he eventually employed me as a dresser, saying that I have an eye for it and knew how it all worked without having to be taught. Even as a dresser it would be impossible for me to come to the dinners or balls, but Mycroft always insists I have a place by his side."

Molly beamed up at Anthea, smiling widely at her story.

"Well!" said Anthea, shifting the mood. "What should we dress you in for dinner?"

At that time they heard a loud, muffled crash and a roar. On the floor below them, they heard the Beast.

"You're feeding the prisoner!?"  
"Master I think I should say it was all John's idea," answered Mycroft.

"Master if this girl is to be the one then we need her alive! She cannot break the spell if she is starving to death!" defended John.

"I'm not interested in any girl! I thought I made it clear to you that I'm married to my work!" he shot back.

"Master, you must do _something_ while there’s still a chance, because that chance does not last forever. Believe me Master: it’s gone before you know it. _Before_. _You_. _Know it_."

Molly didn't breath as she waited for his response.

"She's doesn't eat tonight. And that's final!" he roared and slammed a door shut. Molly turned back to Anthea, trying to swallow her heart that was in her throat.

"I guess I'm not going to dinner tonight," she whispered, more to herself than to Anthea. There was a rattle at the door.

"If you've come to tell me I'm not getting any food, you've no need. I heard plenty from up here," Molly called, trying not to let her tears sound through her voice.

"No need to worry dear, it's only Mrs. Hudson," came a sweet voice. She sounded like an older woman; someone whom Molly was sure she could be friends with under different circumstances. She crossed the room and pulled open the door. In rolled a tea cart —all by itself— with a teapot and teacup on a saucer on the top shelf. The older woman's voice came out of the teapot, who's mouth was just below the spout, as if the spout were her nose.

"Oh, lovely. Aren't you a vision, then?" She was a white teapot with a purple lid, with a matching teacup with a gold rim whose handle appeared to be it's nose. There also appeared to be a chip in the rim.

"See mama? I told you she was pretty," came a sweet young boy's voice.

"Yes Archie, alright," answered Mrs. Hudson with a laugh. She turned back to Molly, "Now I know the Master said no food, so how about a nice spot of tea? That's not food, is it? I find that things never seem so bleak after a cup of tea."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you," Molly said with a curtsy.

Archie hopped to the edge of the tea cart and Molly picked him up, careful to put a hand underneath him and not pick him up solely by the nose. She took a sip —careful to avoid the chipped edge— and sighed as the hot liquid warmed her from the inside out. She set Archie down once she finished the tea.

"That was a very brave thing you did for your father, dear," Mrs. Hudson commented gently.

"Yes, we all think so," added Anthea.

"But I've lost him," Molly lamented. "And I'm worried about him. He's never been on his own before."

"Now, we can't have you going around thinking like that. Let's get you fed, that'll cheer you up. But remember I'm your cook, dearie, not your housekeeper. This'll be the last time I'll remind you!"

"But he said that I'm not aloud to eat," Molly remarked hesitantly.

"People say a lot of things in anger. The Master isn't about thinking, the silly thing. No, he's more emotional, isn't he? But we can't let you go hungry, and he knows that. He's just too prideful to offer food himself," Mrs. Hudson answered, a laugh following soon afterwards. "Now let's get you dressed for dinner!"

John met Molly outside of the kitchen. She could hear excited bustling behind the door.

"Ah! Mademoiselle! You look beautiful!" he cried happily. Anthea had found Molly a simple yet stunning dress: the bodice was a dark green velvet with the sleeves and skirt a spring green. It was the most beautiful thing Molly had ever worn! She had twirled endlessly in the mirror as she admired her reflection. As much as she loved her blue dress, it paled in comparison to the rich, soft fabrics of this one. She wondered if anybody would mind her keeping it.

"Right this way, mademoiselle!" John cheered, pushing open the large door to the dining.

And what a dining room it was! A large gasp escaped Molly as she beheld the room: the end of the room seemed a mile away, with a rich cherry table almost just as long in the centre. The room was unlit, the rising moon spilling in was the only source of light. The blue tint of it made it feel unreal: as if the whole room were just a dream of her wildest wishes.

John climbed the table as Mary flew next to the window, a large platter held in her wings that she used to produce a spotlight. It wandered around the large room before stopping on the table. John stepped into the light.

"Ma chre mademoiselle," he began, projecting loudly. "It is with deepest pride and greatest pleasure that we welcome you tonight. And now, we invite you to relax. Let us pull up a chair..." — a chair behind Molly moved on its own and hit the back of her legs. She fell backwards into it as it scooted into the table, and she giggled uncontrollably. — "As the dining room proudly presents: your dinner."

Plates soon began soaring through the air and silverware danced across the table. The performance was stunning, and Molly was caught in a gaze for a long time before her hunger reminded her to try to grab something to eat it. However every time she reached for one of the delicious looking trays of food, it slipped out of her reach before she could grab anything off of it. Only several times did she manage to dip her finger in a sauce or pudding, finally allowing her something to eat as she gratefully licked it off.

Napkins twirled gracefully, cups clinked perfectly on beat, teapots whistled, and Molly cheered as she watched. Confetti exploded as the music and dancing stopped.

"Bravo!! That was wonderful!!" Molly whooped, clapping loudly.  
Mycroft impatiently ushered all of the plates and cups and silverware back into the kitchen as John bowed at his well-deserved applause.

Mycroft returned, panting slightly. "Yes, well, it's all good and that but you must get to bed now." Molly resigned to a smile as she stood up and was ushered out of the dining room and led back to her gorgeous suite.


	5. Chapter 5

Nighttime made her room look completely different. The pink ceilings looked lavender under the pale blue moonlight, and her lush red sheets and blankets looked like a dark purple. The bed moaned softly as she sat on it, running her hands over the silky fabric. Her bed back home was nice, but not this soft and plush. If she was to spend the rest of her life here, she was thankful that she at least had a comfortable bed.

"Goodnight my dear," Mrs. Hudson said warmly. "We'll wake you up first thing in the morning for breakfast!"

Molly smiled and nodded, a question burning in her mind that she was too scared to ask out loud. It would keep her up all night, however, so she decided to ask it before Mrs. Hudson left. The creaking wheels of the tea cart sounded as she began to roll her way out of the room.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Molly called.

The tea cart rolled back in. "Yes dear?"

Molly looked at her shoes and scuffed the floor nervously. "I don't understand why you all are being so kind to me. With the way that Beast treats a guest, surely you all must feel just as trapped here as I do." Molly paused and took a breath, proceeding cautiously, "Don't you ever want to escape?"

Mrs. Hudson didn't answer immediately; she took her time thinking, a sorrow and pained expression on her face. "The Master isn't as terrible as he appears," she answered. "Somewhere deep in his soul is a prince!" Molly gaped at Mrs. Hudson. "Of a fellow," she stammered, "who is just waiting to be set free."

Molly took a long time to think, then nodded. It didn't quite answer her question, but she didn't want to press it.

"Now, straight to bed with you," Mrs. Hudson said, the tea cart wheeling its way out the door. It closed with a soft click, and Molly was alone. Anthea seemed to be sleeping, and Molly didn't want to wake her to ask the same question in hopes of getting a different response.

The lush bed creaked quietly as Molly eased onto the edge, and she pictured her father safe at home. Never again would she hear him humming away as he worked on his latest invention; her heart ached at the thought and she hoped that he would try to get her back.

The forest outside her window was quiet as she approached it. Snow continued to fall and the grey trees moaned sadly underneath the weight of their white blanket. On the horizon Molly could see where the grass turned green again, and just over the farthest hills must be her little village. Oh how she missed it. Even so to the point that Moriarty didn't even seem so bad.

There was a melody that drifted through the cracks under Molly's bedroom door. Somebody was singing, too. She cracked open the door to listen.

"Will I tremble again to my dear one's gorgeous refrain? Will you now forever remain out of reach of my arms?"

Molly shut her eyes. These poor servants —these poor people— who were once human, living and breathing, were now trapped as houseware. Archie, the sweet young voice she heard couldn't have been older than ten. _There must be something I can do to help,_ thought Molly.

Molly slipped through the door and quietly closed it behind her. Wandering the halls and listening for the source of the music, she was going to confront the servants and demand that she help them when curiosity got the better of her and she began to wander. A set of stairs that she followed led her to the main entrance room she had first seen. She looked at the stairway across from her. When she was looking for her father, and when Mycroft and John were leading her to her room, they had taken the right staircase. She hadn't been up the left staircase. Molly took a quick look around before ascending, making sure nobody was around to catch her in the act.

Gargoyles lined the long hallways. Once it seemed like, out of the corner of her eye, one of the gargoyles reached for her, growling almost silently. She shrieked and looked at it, but it stood still under her gaze. _What else here is alive?_ she wondered nervously.

Large double doors finally ended the seemingly endless corridors. Where they closed, Molly would have turned around and left it alone. Instead, the door was cracked open just enough for Molly to glimpse a dim, pulsing light. Gently she put her head through, peaking around the door, and finally behind her before she entered the room.

The people who called Molly's house a mess would take one good look at this room and never comment on the state of her house again. There were overturned tables and nightstands with shattered glass shards, and the floor dusted with wooden splinters. Molly carefully stepped over and around everything, making her way across the room. There was a large bed, but the sheets, pillows, and frame drapes were shredded to the point that they would barely be able to cover someone's body. Across the way was a large portrait with several long rips in the canvas. Molly looked at it. The ripped man stood there silently, but the largest rip went straight through his face, leaving Molly unsure of what he looked like.

Slowly and silently, she stepped on her tiptoes and reached up her hand to grab the hanging piece of canvas and push it back into place.

_It looks like... it can't be. Her drawing?_

The wall she faced reflected a dim pink glow and Molly turned around. Just around the corner of the room, in an alcove with large frosty windows overlooking the castle gardens was a small wooden table with a glass dome encasing rose. A floating rose, nonetheless. Molly gaped at it, slowly approaching it and leaning forward to glimpse it better. It was glowing and sparkling with what she could only believe was magic.

Just when she reached to take off the glass, she saw glowing eyes and a heated breath come from the shadowy corner of the room. The Beast stepped out, his eyes burning with a raging fire as he ran them over her, the table, and the rose.

"What did you do to it!?" he roared.

"Nothing!" Molly cried.

"Do you realise what you could have done!?"

"I'm sorry!"

"Get out!!!" The Beast thrashed around the broken furniture. Molly turned and ran out of the room, hastily dodging the shards of wood and glass on the ground. " _Get out!!!_ " the Beast yelled after her.

The gargoyles had no time to reach out and try to grab her as she flew past, the musty air of the castle whistling by her ears as she fled. She scaled down the large staircase and found Mycroft and John meandering in the large room before they spotted her flying down the steps.

"Mademoiselle?"

"What are you doing out of bed?" demanded Mycroft.

"Where are you going?" cried John as she passed right over them.

"Promise or no promise," cried Molly, tears bursting. "I can't stay here another minute!"

The door pounded open and Molly ran outside, snow trying to push her back in as she ran against it with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Philippe let out a cry and Molly ran to him, hauling herself up and shouting at him to ride. She didn't know how snow didn't get in Philippe's eyes, but she trusted that he would get the idea of anywhere but here.

Hooves thundered against the snow covered cobblestone and the gate to the castle gardens creaked as they blew past. There was some level of housekeeping in the Beast's garden that kept it from layering with snow, but that sense left as the surrounding forest blanked out. Molly could hardly tell the snow from the sky.

They couldn't have been riding ten minutes when a distant cry called over the ledges towering above them. At first Molly thought she was just seeing glimpses of grey tree bark, when she saw one with eyes and bared teeth. She screamed as a wolf dropped in front of Philippe and barked at them. Philippe reared and Molly clung to whatever she could grasp before she lost her handhold and tumbled off the horse.

Flat on her back, Molly struggled to gasp for air as she saw Philippe try to fight off the wolves and eventually run off. Several ran after him and a few turned their attention to Molly. They approached slowly, their lips quivering with an audible growl.

Molly finally found her breath again and let out a scream. A huge shadow passed over her as they launched to attack her. She rolled her face into the ground and bid her goodbye to her father as a painful squeal drew her head back up.

The Beast!

His teeth seemed even larger than in the candlelight and his fur rose to make him look twice his size. He swept the wolves with one swoop of his massive paw and sent three of them crashing into the nearby trees. They bit and grabbed at him, but couldn't stay attached for long before he would throw them off.

Philippe was screaming, and Molly scrambled to her feet to calm him down before he would become so frightened that he would run away. Molly gripped the horse's reins and watched the vicious battle before her. A wolf had sunk its teeth into the Beast's arm, and two into each leg. Two pounced on him and managed to knock him down. The Beast thrashed forcefully, but not before several of them started ripping into his torso. Molly saw fur and ratted cloak alike being shredded and falling to the ground, and soon she saw blood lining the jaws of the wolves. It was clear the Beast was losing energy. Molly could see his eyes stay closed for a moment when he blinked, and she cried out desperately when his eyes didn't open. A wolf was stalking on his body and growling into his face.

There was no time for a second thought as Molly grabbed a large branch off the ground and swung it at the wolf. It hit him square in the head, and the next hit his side.

With the wolf off his chest, the Beast jolted, gathering energy once more and swinging two more hits, sending the wolves running back into the forest with a loud roar echoing after them. The Beast collapsed.

"Beast!" Molly cried. He had landed forward, and when Molly rolled him into his back, she could see dark red blood staining the snow. Even in the dim light of dawn, there was no doubt that the Beast was bleeding dangerously.

Molly unbuckled the Beast's cloak from around his neck and tore it into strips. If years of reading those anatomy books couldn't help her now, there was no chance that Molly would let this creature die before her without trying to save him. She inspected the wound, her hands shaking from fear and emotion.

"It's not like in your books, is it, Molly?" she cried scoldingly to herself. "There's not just a clean wound for you to work with!" She looked at the Beast, whose eyes seemed to be drifting between open and closed.

Molly looked at him helplessly, talking to both him and herself, "You're almost certainly going to die."

Several strips of the cloth she wadded up and pressed tightly to his chest, tying it tightly in place with the other strips she had made.

_It won't save him, but it'll have to do for now_ , thought Molly.

A small grunt escaped the Beast as his eyes closed. Molly shook him frightfully.

"You need to focus!" she pleaded. When his head drooped to one side, something like an instinct awoke in Molly and she stood over him.

"I said: focus!!" She slapped him hard across the face, and his eyes snapped open as he gasped harshly. He coughed and tried to sit up as Molly pulled Philippe towards him.

"We need to get you inside," she said, crouched down next to him and trying to help him stand.

The Beast shook her hand off his shoulder. "Leave me!"

"I can't leave you out here alone!" Molly cried.

"Alone is what I have! Alone protects me!"

"No!" Molly grabbed his face, gently but forcefully making him look at her. "Friends protect people!" There was a moment as their eyes locked.

Here he was, an ex-master of all he could have dreamed of. Even at his peak, none of his servants —not even John— had ever dared call him friend. And along came this girl —his prisoner— who hadn't known him for even a day, let alone had more than one conversation with him, and she called him a friend. Sherlock looked at her, and something happened to him. He had completely forgotten what it was like to have hope... to have a friend. His human heart started beating once again. He couldn't even remember the last time it had done that.

"You have to help me," Molly pleaded, looking at him desperately. "You have to stand."

Sherlock roared painfully as he hauled himself up. The stabling hand on his chest that was Molly's gave him an extra few steps towards her horse where he collapsed and Molly helped him lift his foot over Philippe.

Weighed heavily under his weight, Philippe carried the Beast back into the castle. Molly pulled on his reins to drag him up the stairs and into his castle.

John and Mycroft where waiting at the door.

"What is that thing doing in here?" scolded Mycroft.

"That's the Master, you clot!" answered John, smacking him in the head.

"I was talking about the horse!"

"Show me to one of the guest suites!" demanded Molly. John and Mycroft hesitated, looking nervously at her. "Now!!" They bumbled and showed her quickly up the stairs, Molly pulling on Philippe behind them.

Mycroft and John waited at the doorway as Sherlock heavily collapsed onto the bed, groaning loudly as Molly helped him onto his back.

"Mademoiselle?" John called.

"What happened to him!?" Mycroft cried.

Molly stepped up to them, hurriedly ordering, "I need hot water, clean rags, and any medical supplies you have. Send Mrs. Hudson in when you have them." She shut the door and left to tend to her patient, kneeling down to carefully undo her temporary handiwork. The rag was soaked with blood, and she gently dropped it on the ground.

A frantic squeaking from the tea cart pushed open the door with Mrs. Hudson standing at the top, steam coming out from her spout-nose. Molly could see John and Mycroft standing stiffly outside the door, trying to peer in before it closed again. Molly tied her hair up, wrapped an apron around her waist, and prepared her procedure.

"Hot bowl of water first," she reminded herself, and reached to pour one out. Mrs. Hudson was trembling as Molly picked her up, and both smiled reassuringly at the other. With a deep breath, Molly rolled up the sleeves to her dress and wetted a cloth in the hot water.

"Are you ready?" she asked the Beast, who nodded grimly. Molly looked at Mrs. Hudson, who nodded as well. "Ok," Molly huffed quietly. "Here it goes."


	6. Chapter 6

"An hour," chimed Mycroft as the small hand on his nose moved over a number. "They've been in there an hour."

John was pacing the span of the doorway, the fires on each of his candles changing from dim to flaming back to dim every so often. Archie was trembling behind Mary ever since they had heard a roar from the Master come from the room some time ago. The servants stood patiently looking at the door, each swallowing their nerves to the best they could.

The door clicked.

A collective gasp came from the anxious party as Molly stepped out of the room. Her face was stricken with horror, her hair was falling out of its place, and her hands were stained red with dried blood. She looked down at them, panting slightly.

"Is he...?" tried Mycroft before his words choked his voice.

A smile broke through on Molly's face. "No, he's going to be fine."

Everybody sighed. John's candles relit, Archie stopped shaking, and Mycroft breathed again, gears audibly clicking again.

"He suffered a lot of blood loss," continued Molly, "but I managed to fix him up. He won't be doing any more wolf fighting anytime soon, I'm afraid." She let herself laugh again. "Just make sure he gets plenty of food and doesn't work himself too much. We don't want that wound coming open again."

"We are forever grateful to you, mademoiselle!" cheered Mary.

"Consider us at your service," added Mycroft.

"That's very kind of you, thank you." Molly took a small breath, finally allowing herself to relax. "We should let him rest. Those wolves took a lot out of him." She silently shut the door behind her, a ghostly smile on her face.

From that day, the entire castle seemed lighter. The servants ran around the main hallways, laughing and shouting. Molly stood at the top of the staircase, carrying a hot bowl of water up to the Beast's room —as she had done for the past several days— smiling at the echoing laughter. She tapped lightly on the wooden door, and a low grunt signalled to let her in.

The Beast was still lying down, his eyes closed and his large paws clasped together, positioned under his chin.

"I brought you some more warm water," she said gently, closing the door behind her and stepping up to his bedside. "I figured the last bowl had gotten cold from last night." When he didn't respond, Molly pursed her lips and decided not to say anything more. She rang out the rag hanging over the lip of the bowl and dipped it in the new one. After she neatly folded it, she laid it on the Beast's large forehead, his eyes flitting open at its touch.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were sleeping," she hastily said. The Beast sat up a bit with a groan.

"No need to apologise. I was just in my mind palace," he answered.

"Your...?"

"I think you should know now that I rely solely on the power of my mind. The rest of me is merely appendage."

Molly was silent in confusion.

"I'm a consulting prince. The only one in the world. I invented it."

"What does that mean?" Molly asked helplessly.

Sherlock sighed. "It means when the peasants are out of their depths —which is always— they consult me."

Molly thought for a moment. "Amateurs don't consult princes."

Sherlock looked over at her. "When I said 'only child, aspiring pathologist' you looked surprised."

Molly swallowed nervously. "How _did_ you know that?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your clothes: they're nice, but you re-wear them all the time (the wearing and patching gives that away) so they're your only clothes. They fit you, which means they were bought specifically for you. If they were that expensive, you wouldn't buy individual clothes for all your children, they would be hand-me-downs, thus being too big for you. So you're an only child.

"Your hair is self braided, and very skilfully done, so obviously you've had practice. It wouldn't be this nice if you had a mother to do it for you. You lost your mother and had to learn by yourself.

"Giving a girl a ring from a lover is popular these days, but you have no ring hanging around your neck, nor pockets to hold it, so you're single.

"The way you squint at close up things tells me you read, and what you read? I could see a large scar on your left forefinger that you had patched up yourself. No girl in your village would have been taught that as girls are hardly taught to read, so you must be aspiring to be a pathologist."

"I could have been an aspiring doctor."

"Have you seen the way you are around living things? There's no way you could operate on anything but something dead."

A long silence hung between them. Molly's jaw was slack as she looked at the Beast, whose eyes were now closed again.

"And people at my village thought _I_ was smart," she mused.

Sherlock looked over at her suddenly. Somehow he had forgotten something in his initial deduction of her on their first meeting, and now the word was floating around her.

 _Lonely_.

Sherlock took a breath, but decided against commenting and instead remarked, "I had a very expensive education."

Molly giggled, and a small smile crept up on Sherlock. Even before Moriarty's curse, the servants where tense around Sherlock. They didn't dare laugh around him without his consent. A sudden surprise hit Sherlock as he realised how at ease this girl was around him already.

"May I?"

Sherlock looked at her, surprisingly embarrassed to be caught in his musings. "Mm?"

"Your wound. It's been several days. Would you mind if I checked it? It might even be time to take the bandages off."

With a nod, Molly helped Sherlock sit up enough for him to tug his shirt over his head, sighing as he laid back down.

As the padding was slowly peeled back, Molly could see a heathy scar underneath the clotted fur. There was one particular book Molly enjoyed more than the others in her village library. It was a book about the body's healing procedures, including pictures of what a healthy wound looked like and what herbs were best to help and where to find them.

"Well it seems you might be out of this bed sooner than I thought," she said, smiling up at him.

With an appreciative nod, Sherlock asked, "How are you so well trained in the medical field?"

"My village had a library, and my whole life I spent reading and rereading the anatomy books. There was one book that went over wounds —how to patch them up and what a healthy wound should look like."

Sherlock closed his eyes and grunted, but out of understanding, rather than disgust, as all of her villagers would do. Whenever she would talk about the right herbs for healing and how to tend to injuries, they wore a sneer of disgust. She had run home crying one day after she had patched up her neighbour's dog, only to have them chase her away, calling her a freak. Bartholomew picked her up, carrying her to her bed where he sat down and waited until she stopped crying.

"People are scared of what they don't know," he had said. "You helped that dog, Molly, even if those people didn't appreciate it. I'm so proud of you! One day, you'll be the best doctor out there. And there will be so many people out there who will thank you for saving them!"

Molly had looked up at him, her eyes red and holding a look of disbelief. "How do you know?"

Bartholomew smiled. "Because you are a good person, Molly. You have the kindest heart, and you're incredibly smart. You're going to help so many people." He set her on the ground and looked into her eyes. "So don't let what people say stop you from doing good."

From that day, Molly refused to let anything deter her from her passion, no matter what anyone said to her. But it was nice to have someone respond positively to her. She smiled as she worked.

As Molly continued to inspect the wound, she found that the stitches she had made could be taken out now. A pair of shears was on the bedside table from when she first patched him up. She picked them up and —careful to avoid cutting his fur, or his skin for that matter— cut one of the tied ends and began to pick out the silk thread.

In the past, Bartholomew would often ask Molly to help him construct pieces of his melody boxes, and she developed the habit of talking to herself. She would often recite songs or procedures, but she was starting to miss her Grimm's fairytale book, and started reciting her favourite tale as she finished picking the last stitches.

"Once upon a time as a merchant set off for market, he asked each of his three daughters what she would like as a present on his return. The first daughter wanted a brocade dress, the second a pearl necklace, but the third, whose name was—"

"Molly." The Beast opened his eyes and turned to look at her. "That's your name, isn't it? Molly?"

"Oh, uhm... yes. Yes it is," she stammered.

"Mm," remarked the Beast and turned his head back, closing his eyes again. He added flatly, "Well do go on. I believe you were at, 'Beauty, the youngest, prettiest and sweetest of them all, said to her father: 'All I'd like is a rose you've picked specially for me.'"

Molly looked up at him, her eyes alight. "You know Grimm's Fairytales?"

The Beast scoffed. "They were my bedtime stories. I was so excited to get to read other, better things."

" _Better_ things?" Molly repeated incredulously.

"Surely that wasn't the best you could read? There are so many better things."

"Like what!?"

The Beast rolled his eyes. He made to get up, but Molly's small, worried movements made him stop. He huffed, asking irritably, "Well, if I may I have my doctor's permission?" After Molly nodded, with a small smile, he added quietly, "And your assistance."

They both heaved until he was upright, and Molly helped him stand. Molly looked up at him as he steadied himself. This was the closest she had gotten to him; even closer than when she bravely stepped closer to him at their first meeting. He was tall; a good two feet taller than her. He stood largely, his chest out, but he didn't look frightening. He looked grand, like a powerful ruler with an entire city under his reign.

"Shall we?" he asked, looking down at her. Molly nodded, shaking away the sudden imagery.

The halls of the castle took on a different light every time Molly had walked down them. That first night, they were cold and threatening; with John and Mycroft, they were curious and observant; on her own, they were mysterious and calling. As she walked behind the Beast, they seemed tense and orderly, as if he were a general walking by lines of soldiers, and they dared not step out of line. They reached a large pair of doors that Molly hadn't been through yet, and the Beast opened them easily, muttering to her, "See I'm sure there are a few things in here we can find you."

After one step into the spacious room, Molly stopped short, her jaw slack and her arms limp at her sides. The ceiling towered over them, with each wall completely covered in rows and rows of books. Molly had never seen so many books in her life, let alone in one place!

When Molly was younger, her father once let her ride with him to the nearby village as he tried to sell his music boxes. It was a larger village, with more people and more shops, but also, as Molly's priorities had it, a bigger library. She had gasped when she enters, and a couple people standing around looked up to give her a weird look. It was twice as deep as the one in her village and the books there were even for sale. When Molly had rushed out to excitedly blabber about it to her father, he had told her to go pick out four books that she wanted and he would get them for her. She had almost cried right in the middle of the town square, hugging her father and thanking him over and over again. The rest of the day she had spent going over which books she had wanted, finally whittling down her stack of twenty to just four. She still read them even years later.

The amount of excitement of that small village library paled embarrassingly in comparison to the one before her. A dozen of that village's library could have fit in the main room. There were two stories with plenty of staircases going up to allow quick access to whatever section you wanted without having to walk too far. Molly's hands slowly covered her mouth and she looked around her. The books teased her, called out to her, their green, red, blue, and brown spines urging her to take them all down and read them all.

"Are you alright?" the Beast asked once he caught notice that she was in awe.

Molly had to fight back tears and she looked at him, finally choking out, "It's beautiful!"

The Beast looked around, a look on his face that made Molly feel like it was the first time in a long time he had actually done that. He gave a small shrug, a pout on his lips. "I suppose it is," he muttered quietly. He watched her spin around, giggling behind her hand as she gazed at the forest of books, finally stopping in front of him and giving him a goofy smile. Sherlock blamed it on the fact that he was in pain, or the way the sunlight filtered in the tall windows, or how her skirt twirled around her when she spun, but in that moment when their eyes locked, he found the only logical thing to say was, "If you like it so much, then it's yours."

Molly's eyes widened and her smile dropped, only to return a few moment after. Sherlock cleared his throat, turning away and adding hastily, "I'm sure there are anatomy and physiology books here that you could read to help patch me up."

He slowly limped to the right wing of the library, Molly's eyes following him curiously; she couldn't help but watch his tail slowly flick back and forth as he stood in front of the shelves, pulling out this book and that, reading the spine, and thumbing through the pages before stacking them on a nearby table. A brief smile made its way to Molly's face as she walked to stand next to him, discussing each book he pulled out. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John, Mary, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson crowd in the doorway watching them, half of them smiling and the other half giving an approving, encouraging nod.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Take these again, for to the noble mind rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind" (Hamlet Act 3 scene 1).  
> "Take these back, because to a sensible person expensive gifts are worthless if the person who gave it is unkind."  
> I hope the symbolism was understandable in this chapter.

It was many times since Sherlock accidentally gave Molly his own castle library that he almost regretted doing so. He would prowl his castle grounds menacingly, reminding the gargoyles and armoured statues that he was still their prince, when he would turn a corner and yelp, having seen Molly suddenly right next to him, curled up with a book. Often times, he found her sleeping, the book still propped up in her lap.

After several days he was heading to the West Wing to check on his rose, when he saw Molly at the front door, approaching his head footman who stood guard at the door.

"Hello Molly!" he heard him chirp. "You're looking lovely today!"

Molly hung her head and shifted her feet, a big smile on her face before she looked back up. Several times Sherlock noticed this habit of hers, but he couldn't quite find a word to describe it. Annoying? No, absolutely not. Amusing? Not quite. Endearing?

Sherlock paused and frowned as he found the right word. Surely he couldn't find her endearing, could he? His prisoner? But Sherlock began to see her as something different than a prisoner ever since she had stuck by his side and called him a friend.

"Aw, why thank you, Lestrade! Anthea's been spoiling me with these beautiful dresses. It really is quite beautiful here. I was planning on taking a walk through the gardens and read, but I didn't think to bring a cloak with me when I first came. Do you possibly have a spare I could borrow?"

"Of course! I'll give you Mary's old cloak, since it doesn't seem to fit her anymore," he said with a laugh. Molly watched him as he went. He was a tall coat rack, his many arms positioned out and upwards and his moustached face sculpted into the top knob just above. He wore an elegant top hat on his brass head, and Molly couldn't help but smile whenever she would pass by him in the halls and he would tip it respectfully towards her.

From a nearby wardrobe, he retrieved a long, black cloak, the edges lined with feathers. With a graceful motion, he fluttered it around her shoulders and buckled it for her. Immediately, Molly cuddled into it.

"Thank you, Lestrade. This is perfect!" She gave him a big smile and a curtsy before he opened the door for her, tipping his hat as she left.

Sherlock was down the steps in no time, quietly following after her. Not out of territoriality, suspecting her of running away once outside, but merely out of curiosity.

"Master," acknowledged Lestrade.

"Geoff," Sherlock replied.

"It's _Greg_ ," he corrected, but Sherlock was already out the door.

Molly was nowhere in sight as he looked over the garden. Suddenly he started to wonder if she had run away. Sherlock tried not to let that thought get to him and decided to first check the gardens before running after her. After almost a full round around the castle, he spotted her, sitting under a gothic, snow covered arbor. One of the many anatomy books he had pulled out was sitting in her lap, enticing and entrancing her. A small stack of a few more books was positioned next to her, the snow on the bench brushed off so they wouldn't get damaged. He was only ten feet away, but she didn't seem to have spotted him yet.

Sherlock took this time to look at her— really look.

When her father came to the castle, Sherlock was so hardened and inhuman that he didn't give a second thought to his reasons for trespassing. But when Molly stood in front of him —he could still picture her hand gripping her father's tightly and desperately— and confronted him, demanding she pay the price for the picked rose instead of him—

A sting went through Sherlock's chest. She was so selfless that she would rather her receive punishment than her father, and Sherlock had to admire that. He knew nobody in his castle would have made that sacrifice for him, even if it were a choice. Maybe it was because he was so envious and confused by this young girl that he had treated her so poorly her first day.

Deep down Sherlock knew he had to treat her kinder than he had. A week ago, when Molly had snuck into the West Wing, he saw it was almost halfway wilted. Time was running out. But Sherlock was so far deep inside his shell that he dared to wonder if he could come out in time.

His feet walked him forward completely out of his will, and Molly finally saw him.

"Oh it's you," she said, and she did the thing again. She smiled, hung her head, as if trying to hide the smile, and looked back up at him. He couldn't help but smile distractedly. For someone so brave, she did seem rather shy.

"You seem to be feeling better," she continued, and Sherlock quickly shook away the embarrassment of being caught staring.

"Yes, well," He sat down on the bench next to hers. "I figured it would be best if I got my exercise." He stretched out his legs with a wince. The bite injuries hadn't been as bad as his chest, since Molly had seen it fit to take off the bandages a few days before taking out the suture, but they still ached. He nodded towards the book in Molly's lap. "Have you found anything worthwhile in my library?"

"Have I! There's more books in there that I could read in a lifetime!" she answered excitedly.

"Well I hope you can patch me up faster than you can read," Sherlock quipped. Her laughter surprised him.

"I'll try." Their eyes locked and a moment passed between them, but it wasn't unpleasant or awkward.

When the moment had passed, Sherlock took a deep breath, tearing his eyes away. "I see you've found something better than the monstrosity you had at your library. Which one is that one?"

Molly looked down at the pile beside her, picking up the top book and replacing the anatomy book with it. "It's called Hamlet. I'm a good ways into it. I've never heard of it before."

"You've never heard of Shakespeare!?" he snorted in amusement and horror.

Molly laughed, a wide smile on her face. "You're asking the girl who had at least a dozen books in her library growing up? We didn't have too wide of an array of options."

He shrugged. "I enjoyed Richard III more than Hamlet, but Hamlet was good, too."

"I'm actually really enjoying it. I'm beginning to understand when you said 'better things.'" she replied with a smile.

With a chuckle, Sherlock stood up suddenly. "Then read it to me." He extended his hand down to her, watching and waiting to gauge her reaction.

Her small hand slowly lifted and fit into his. A warm surge traveled through both of their arms when they touched. As she pulled herself up, Molly noted how soft his fur and how warm his palm was. With his other hand extended out, Molly placed her books in his other arm, keeping Hamlet tucked against her. They began walking, her letting him lead, as her nose was stuck in a book.

"Where are you currently?" Sherlock asked, hearing her flip through the pages.

"Hamlet was lamenting about his choices. He was debating whether or not he should take the life of his uncle, King Claudius.

"Ah. The famous 'To be or not to be' scene."

"I stopped right after Ophelia entered." Sherlock gave an acknowledging nod and waited for her to begin.

"'My lord, I have remembrances of yours  
That I have longèd long to redeliver.  
I pray you now receive them.'

'No, not I. I never gave you aught.'

'My honoured lord, you know right well you did,  
And with them, words of so sweet breath composed  
As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost,  
Take these again, for to the noble mind  
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.  
There, my lord.'"

The book crashed against Molly's chest as she ran into Sherlock, who had stopped suddenly.

"Is everything ok?" she asked, walking around him to see his face. A shadow of hurt and doubt was gone in a flash from his eyes, but Molly was quick enough to see it.

"I never liked that line," he answered quietly, not meeting her eyes.

His whole life, Sherlock had everything at his fingertips. He gave generously, but not sincerely. He never understood why that line made sense. Surely, if someone was given something, if it was valuable then it didn't matter how kind the giver was, right?

Molly stood in front of him. He saw the book she held tightly against her and panic washed over him. The look of pure joy on her face when she had seen his library had moved him. Something in him decided he wanted to see her happy all the time. But what if he was unkind to her? The value of the library would be lost and so would that joy. She wouldn't want him anymore.

"You do like your library, don't you?" he asked, his voice more desperate that he would have liked.

Molly was shocked by the vulnerability in his eyes. But she gave him a reassuring smile. "I love it, Beast! I was actually going to ask if you had any recommendations after I finish this one. You mentioned Richard III, I believe?"

_Beast?_ he thought. _Well that won't do._

"Sherlock."

"What's that one?"

He gave a half-indignant, half-amused snort. "My name. It's Sherlock."

Eventually Molly nodded, looking down and trying it out. "Sherlock," she whispered.

"It's almost supper time. We should be heading back." As much as he tried to hide it, he couldn't help but smile as Molly looked up at him. The feathered hood framed her face and gave her angelic look, creating an extra beat in Sherlock's cold heart. He laughed: the Angel and the Beast. She nodded and took his arm, and together, they walked back to the castle.

Refusing to look anywhere near her out of bashfulness, Sherlock took to looking around him. He slowly stopped walking, a look of wonder on his face as he looked at the winter gardens around them. The snow sparkled and the trees seemed to be laughing playfully.

"It's as if I'm seeing it for the first time," he answered, his voice hushed. "It's... beautiful."

"Yes... Yes it is," agreed Molly, standing by his side and looking with him.

As a boy, Sherlock was never able to play outside. And as a ruler, even more so. There was no time for that sort of thing, so Sherlock always learned to disregard the snow, the leaves, and the flowers. They were simply another thing to flounce, but to also leave to the gardeners. For months after Moriarty's curse, he had locked himself inside his castle, not even allowing himself to look out the window. He had long since accepted the fact that the world had no need for a beast like him. But Molly had come into his life now, bringing him a human torch to follow. He would never admit it, but he wished and depended on her so much to return him to how he was. It wasn't fair for her, he knew, but he still hoped that she would pity him enough to...

"How about you head in without me? I'll be in shortly," Sherlock remarked hastily. He gave Molly back her books and watched her as she walked away.

No. It wasn't Molly's burden, and Sherlock knew that. Moriarty said that _he_ needed to prove he was on the side of the angels. Moriarty didn't specify that he needed to rely on someone else.

However, today gave him hope. The way she looked at him— touched him, even, he thought, perhaps, there's something there that wasn't there before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anybody catch my Once Upon a Time quote? ;)


	8. Chapter 8

For the past several days when Sherlock had been healing in bed, Molly took him his meals and ate with him. Now that he was up, he decided to offer that she eat with him in his dining hall.

He knocked delicately on her suite door.

"Come in," came the answer.

She was sitting on the windowsill, an open book in her lap. Sherlock stopped after a few steps into the room and took a deep breath. "When you were caring for me while I was recovering, you brought me my meals. Now that I'm better I was wondering if you..." He trailed off and took another step forward. "Would you like to..."

"Take a walk?"

"Have dinner?"

They fell silent, as they had spoken at the same time.

Molly laughed. "Dinner?"

_Are you kidding me?_ something inside Sherlock chided him. _You think she would want to eat dinner with you? You, a beast?_

Sherlock gave a small nod, preparing for a rejection.

Molly eyes lit up and she smiled. "I would love to!" And the inward voice disappeared just as it had come.

Sherlock nodded and couldn't help but smile back. "I'll let you get ready, then." Outside of the room, with the door shut, Sherlock sighed, smiling involuntarily. A nauseating flutter started in his chest. He put his hand over his heart to try to calm it, but it only beat faster.

High heart rate, smiling, heated face, sense of excitement... _Flustered_ , Sherlock concluded.

Laughing quietly at himself, he went to his room to prepare.

While the kitchen buzzed energetically, with pots and pans clashing and the furnace boiling, up in Sherlock's bedchamber, the servants were trying to clean him up and calm him down.

"It's no use!" cried Sherlock dramatically, standing up from his vanity chair and pacing the room. "How in the world am I supposed to look 'presentable' when I look like this!?" He ruffled the raven fur on his head.

"Well we'll never know if you keep running away from the scissors," answered Lestrade exasperatedly. He held a pair of scissors and waited until Sherlock was seated before trying to trim his fur again.

"But what if she doesn't like it?" he whined, standing up once more.

"Sherlock!"

"Oh, fine!"

He harrumphed loudly as he sat back down. The scissors and comb flipped through his hair, thinning his mane and beard. Mrs. Hudson and Archie polished his nails while John straddled his horns, polishing them as well. Mary fluttered around and grabbed a small, blue bow which Lestrade used to tie up the long ends of his hair. Mycroft stood at the foot of the wardrobe and tugged at the bottom of one of the outfits.

"This one," he said. Lestrade drew it out: a blue court attire, embroidered with gold and riddled with large brass buttons.

"This was a stupid idea," Sherlock muttered. From atop his horn John hit him on the head.

"Master, if you may permit me to say, but this is the best idea you've come up with. The rose won't be here for forever, and neither will this girl. You must act while we still have them both!"

Sherlock sighed as John finished polishing up his horns. Lestrade held out the outfit and Sherlock grabbed it and disappeared behind a dressing screen.

"Come out, Master. You can not hide behind there forever," John called after several minutes. "You must go out there and tell her how you feel!"

Suddenly Sherlock appeared from behind the screen. "I feel like a fool!"

He picked nervously at his palm while the servants looked him over.

"How handsome!" Mary commented as Lestrade adjusted his cravat.

"Yes, you do look quite presentable," added Mycroft.

Sherlock dared to look in the mirror. The royal blue coat fit nicely, and the gold lining set it off perfectly. The white frills of his cuffs and necktie where a nice touch as well, he noted. They decided to forgo shoes and hose, keeping the matching breeches that stopped at his knees. For as beastly as he was, they did manage to make him look quite presentable.

Molly stood across the staircase from him. She was far away, but Sherlock could see her plainly. The bright yellow dress made her shine and half of her dark brown hair pinned into a small bun. They both descended, unable to look away from each other. On the landing they stopped, Molly curtsying and Sherlock bowing low. He could see her plainer now: the pleated ruffled ball gown billowed around her, and she wore yellow satin gloves that stopped just underneath the puffy sleeves that fell off her shoulders. He offered his arm and she slipped her hand in, smiling up at him. Together they went down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson, Archie, and Mary waiting for them at the bottom.

"Tale as old as time," began Mrs. Hudson, her voice hushed. "True as it can be. Barely even friends, then somebody bends unexpectedly."

Even though the furniture was alive and could move itself, Sherlock pulled out the chair for Molly and pushed it back in as she sat. He took his place across from her and they ate together, Lestrade nearby singing on a violin.

"Thank you for inviting me to dinner," Molly said softly as she finished her meal.

"My pleasure," Sherlock answered.

"The food was very good."

"Yes. As useless as he is in other fields, Anderson isn't that bad in the kitchen."

Molly let out a small laugh. He made her happy again, Sherlock noted. It gave him the extra courage to stand up and walk to her side of the table. By the time he reached her, her eyes were locked on him. He could see her mind turning, a question behind her large brown eyes.

"Molly, would you give me the honour of dancing with me?"

A delightful blush appeared on her cheeks as she scooted out and took his hand. He led her to the ballroom, the lengthy walk creating nerves and doubts in Sherlock's head, but as he looked at her, her big smile reassured him. Everything was going to be ok.

John and Mycroft were waiting anxiously in the room on top of a harpsichord which gently carried the melody Mrs. Hudson began.

"Just a little change: small to say the least. Both a little scared, neither one prepared."

They took each other's hands. Sherlock shook his head insecurely.

"I'm not sure about this. It's been years since I've danced with anybody," he commented nervously.

"That's alright. Just follow me lead. I'm not the best dancer, either," Molly remarked.

"Then maybe we shouldn't—"

"Sherlock." She put her hand on his chest and he looked up at her. "Trust me." He nodded.

"Beauty and the Beast."

With his hand in hers once more, Molly began the routine. First to the right, then to the left, and after the first steps, Sherlock joined in. They went around each other and he spun her, her shining dress billowing out and twisting beautifully. With changing arms, they briskly walked the ballroom. Molly ran around Sherlock and they were both out of breath when they held each other, hands in the other's and arms around waists or shoulders. They filled the entire space dancing and turning.

"Ever just the same, ever a surprise. Ever as before, ever just as sure as the sun will rise."

The music played grandly, filling the room and showering down on the dancing couple. Progressively the two became less aware of the world surrounding them and became more focused on each other: the quick steps; the tight hand holds; the unbreaking gaze.  
"Tale as old as time, tune as old as song. Bittersweet and strange, finding you can change, learning you were wrong."

With one spin, Molly's arms were around Sherlock's neck. He cradled her head with his hand —the other on her back— and he dipper her down. She became weightless, and the room lost its colour; everything except Sherlock, whose blue eyes became mixed with green, gold and silver, and his brown fur seemed to match a little too well with her hair. He hung over her. Molly could see life in his eyes again.

Colour came rushing back into the room as he pulled her up. There were stars in the room, hundreds of lights floating and twinkling off of the chandeliers. Molly wrapped her arm around his neck again and he lifted her with one arm, spinning them amongst the lights. Not once did either of them look away from the other.

"Certain as the sun rising in the east; tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme: Beauty and the Beast."

Sherlock gently set her back down and they're hands found each other again. Their waltz filled the ballroom. A final spin slowed them down and set them apart, but they still held each other's hands.

He dropped her hand, turning and extending his arm with his chest puffed out grandly. Molly stepped to his side and slipped her hand through his arm. They faced a large glass doorway that led to a balcony overlooking the gardens.

"Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme."

They looked at each other, eyes gleaming with hope.

"Beauty and the Beast."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 700 hits?? And 40 kudos??? You guys are the best!!!!!! TAT

The soft melody finished its song as Sherlock led Molly outside. The air was frosty from the snow falling and Molly took the excuse to step closer to Sherlock. As she looked up at him, he was breathless, a smile playing on his lips.

"It's been years since I've danced. I'd almost forgotten the feeling," he said happily. "I love dancing; I've always loved it."  
Molly smiled. "My father taught me to dance. When I was little he let me stand on his toes while he danced."

"Well I thought your were an exquisite partner."

Molly smiled up at him. She thought of her father: his kind face, his warm heart. A pang of hurt and longing racked her heart and she fell solemn.

With barely a glance, Sherlock deduced her. "You must miss him."

Molly nodded, not looking at him. "I do."

"I'm sorry that I took you away from him."

"I was the one who traded my freedom for his. You had no control over that."

They fell silent. After a moment Sherlock shook his head and laughed pitifully. "It's foolish, I suppose… for a creature like me to hope that one day he might earn your affection."

Molly looked up at him then and placed her hand over his which was gripping the balcony railing tightly.

"You don't know that," she defended.

He looked at her. "Really? You think..." He took a moment to swallow. "Molly, are you happy here with me?"

Molly's face became unreadable, and Sherlock felt uneasy not knowing what she was thinking. Suddenly a smile broke out.

"Yes," she answered sincerely, and Sherlock could breath again. "I wish my father could see this place— properly. He would love it here." She sighed sadly. "I wish I could see him again, just for a moment. I miss him so much."

"There is a way," Sherlock answered with a smile.

They walked to the West Wing together with Sherlock explaining. "The night I was cursed, the Enchanter left me two 'gifts': the rose and the mirror. The rose lets me see my life as it is and the mirror lets me see my life as it never can be. It can show you anything; anything you wish to see."

They had entered the room and Sherlock picked up the large handheld mirror. Looking into it, Molly could just see her reflection, but after glancing at Sherlock who nodded encouragingly, said, "I'd like to see my father... please."

Her reflection rippled as if it were breaking water, slowly melting into the image of Bartholomew. Hands were grabbing at him and angry faces yelling at him. Molly could see the people who were once her neighbours shoving her father and forcing him into a prison cart. The warden forcefully shut the door and secured the lock. Bartholomew's desperate face appeared behind the small barred window.

"Papa!" Molly cried. "What's happening? What are they doing to him!?" The mirror showed the angry villagers with lit torches, their anger being further aroused by James Moriarty. "He's in trouble!"

Sherlock thought quickly. There was only one option that he saw. "Then you must go to him," he said, unable to look at her and instead looking at the wilting rose beside them, whose third petal was dropping dangerously low.

Molly gaped at him. "What did you say?"

Sherlock could finally look at her again, repeating stronger, "You must go to him. No time to waste." Once more he turned away, this time turning his back.

"But I thought..." Molly trailed off, her promise burning in her mind. The reason she was trapped there was now the reason she was being let free. "You mean... I'm free? I'm no longer your prisoner?"

Sherlock turned around. His eyes shone with emotion— ones that Molly had never seen before: longing, fear, and sadness. "You haven't been for a long time," he answered quietly.

Molly gasped, the weighted words hung between them. She slowly held out the mirror for him to take back.

"No, take it with you. So that you always have a way to look back and remember me." He stepped closer. "I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not all the men you meet can turn out to be monstrous beasts." He managed a weak chuckle and a smile as their eyes remained locked. One step forward put him right in front of her and he leaned down slowly. Molly lost her breath as he delicately kissed her cheek. When he drew back and looked at her, her eyes were closed, and he used the cover to turn his back and stalk to the window, afraid of looking at her again. Whether it was out of fear of her scolding him or him changing his mind and keeping her he couldn't tell.

Small footsteps echoed down the west wing and even smaller ones entered the room.

"Well, brother dear," came the voice of Mycroft, "I must say I had my doubts but it appears everything is working like clockwork!"

Sherlock turned around weakly. The servants were there with cheerful expressions on their faces. "I let her go."

"You bloody did _what_!?" John yelled.

"How could you do that?" cried Mary.

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. "I had to."

"But why?" demanded Mycroft.

"Because he loves her," Mrs. Hudson answered gently.

"Then why are we not human?" John asked.

"Because she doesn't love him," answered Mycroft.

"And now it's too late," Mary lamented.

"But she might still come back!" Mrs. Hudson commented.

Sherlock cut in, "No. I set her free. I'm sorry I couldn't do the same for you." With a nod he dismissed them. "Now go... Our time is almost passed."

Something like a wave of acceptance washed over the group. They resigned to leave and spend what few moments they had conscious with who they had. Mary and John wrapped their arms around each other as they all walked out.

"Come, my love," he heard John whisper.

Mycroft would no doubt trek the many staircases up to Anthea and spend his last moments with her, and Mrs. Hudson would take Chip and assist Lestrade and Anderson in the kitchen. Everyone had someone to be with in their final moments; everyone except Sherlock. His breath escaped him suddenly, but he didn't bother to get it back.

Ten years ago, before Moriarty's curse, Sherlock couldn't get away from people. Women threw themselves at his feet and men aspired to be as smart and powerful as him. How ironic it was that he would die alone. Sherlock looked out of the large window, musing the past. How quickly things could change. He once was a popular, handsome prince, but just like that: he changed into a lonely, hideous monster. He once was confined to his prison, until one day a girl wandered into his castle searching for her father. He once was happy, with a partner beside him to read, eat, and dance with, but just like that: she was gone. He had lost everything he thought mattered until he found what did matter, but he lost that, too.

"I was the one who had it all," he thought aloud. "I was the master of my fate. I never needed anybody in my life! I learnt the truth too late."

Sherlock sighed, his broad shoulders slumping.

"I'll never shake away the pain." He passed a hand over his eyes, briefly seeing moments of the past: Molly's courageous confrontation; her face full of sincerity when she refused to leave his side when he was injured; her gentle touches; her reaction to his library; dinner; the dance. All of them where of her. "I close my eyes but she's still there!" Sherlock cried, angry and helpless. "I let her steal into my melancholy heart! It's more than I can bear!"

 _Molly_...

Her memory would remain, and that alone gave him hope. He rushed to the window. She was still there, mounting her horse and desperately shaking the reigns with the mirror clutched tightly in her hand. Sherlock smiled, his heart exploding with new found hope. No matter how far away, Molly was still in his heart. Not even Moriarty could take that away from him.

"Now I know she'll never leave me, even as she runs away. She will still torment me, calm me, hurt me, move me, come what may."

The gardens obscured her as she began to ride, so Sherlock clambered outside of the window, watching her desperately. He never felt more lonely, yet alive.

"Wasting in my lonely tower, waiting by an open door." Along with the hope came the lie that he told himself. He shook his head. "I'll fool myself she'll walk right in and be with me forevermore."

Sherlock travelled up the outside tower, his eyes remaining locked on the fleeing blur of yellow.

 _You moron_ , hissed the inhuman voice buried inside him. _Sentiment is the chemical defect found on the losing side. Your mind is the only thing that matters, not some girl._

Sherlock grunted angrily and shook the thoughts away, trying to do whatever he could to hold on to the waning human side of his heart. "I rage against the trials of love! I curse the fading of the light!" Molly had just passed through the castle gates, the branches of the forest beginning to end his view of her. "Though she's already flown so far beyond my reach, she's never out of sight.

"Now I know she'll never leave me, even as she fades from view. She will still inspire me, be a part, of everything I do. Wasting in my lonely tower, waiting by an open door."

He had reached the top of the tower, looking out over the entire castle, gardens, and forest. Breathless, he stopped, his voice hushed. "I'll fool myself she'll walk right in. And as the long, long nights begin I'll think of all that might have been, waiting here forevermore!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who else is crying? :D Cause I am! *sobs quietly*
> 
> I'm pretty sure that next chapter's gonna be the last one, so stay tuned for the final battle... you could even call it... the final problem.
> 
> Have a Merry Christmas all!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes the final chapter. Wow. What a journey. Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented, and left kudos. This has been an unbelievable and unforgettable experience.
> 
> Suuuper long chapter. I used a lot of season 2 finale quotes, so there are spoilers if you haven't seen it yet. Also, anybody catch my Pirates of Penzance and Road to El Dorado reference? XP
> 
> And Happy New Year to you all:)

Molly struggled to keep a steady breath as Philippe raced through the forest. Everything seemed surreal.

 _What had just happened?_ Molly thought. Dinner and the dance, him releasing her and giving her a kiss… _Did that really happen?_

When the snow stopped falling, Molly knew she was getting closer to her village. Her heart trembled with excitement— the village she had grown bored of and dreamed of getting away from now seemed so new and welcoming. But she also shook with fear. She hoped against all odds that her father was safe and that she could still save him.

In one moment, the trees suddenly stopped and Molly raced into an open field. A small line of roofs dotted the horizon and Molly let out a gasp. Philippe's hooves soon met with the cobblestone pathway leading in. At night, there were often torches set out at every doorway in case there were returning travellers, but the torches were gone along with any sign of life. Far off, in the centre of the village, a warm glow caught Molly's eye, along with the dull roar of a crowd. She galloped into the square and was met with an angry mob that James had rallied up and the warden exchanging words and coins with the man himself.

"Stop!" Molly yelled. A gasp ran through the crowd as they saw her. She dropped from Philippe and strode in front of James, the mirror still gripped tightly in her hand. "James! What are you doing!?"

"Oh Molly," he crowed showily. "You're safe! Thank heavens! After your father lost his mind we had all started to worry if he had done something to you!"

"My father hasn't lost his mind! What are you all talking about?" She didn't wait for an answer before she rushed to the back of the prison cart. Bartholomew's face was deathly pale with dark bags underneath his eyes, and his hands were ice as he desperately reached his hand through the small barred window. "Papa, are you alright? What did they do to you!?"

"Oh Molly," he sobbed, "I thought I'd lost you."

Molly looked at James. "Why are you doing this to him!?"

"Your father has been raving about a beast in a castle like some madman! He was becoming a danger to everyone around him so we had to lock him up!" he answered, shrugging and looking around at his crowd for agreement, to which he received several nodding heads.

"I've just come from the castle and there _is_ a Beast!" she pleaded.

James laughed. "You'd say anything to set him free! Your word is hardly proof," he scoffed.

Molly stared furiously at him, her fists tightening angrily and closing over the warm metal of the mirror handle.

_The mirror..._

"Proof? I have proof!" She held up the mirror in front of her, projecting loudly, "Show me the Beast!"

A blinding flash of light shone from the glass, and several gasps were heard throughout the crowd. The image of Sherlock appeared, but his eyes were dropped, his face tired, and his large build hunched painfully. He looked so different than the proud creature Molly had seen over the course of her stay. She frowned, her heart pounding with worry for her friend until James ripped the mirror from her hands. He gaped at it in horror.

"What is this sorcery?" he cried dramatically. He turned the mirror and pronounced it to the crowd. "Look at this beast," he said, waving the mirror in front of more faces. "Look at its fangs! His claws!" he shouted. Several shouts of anger were rallied from the mob.

"He's hideous!" cried a woman in the back. She pushed her way to the front, her large, curly black hair announcing her presence. "He's a freak!" she screamed.

"No! Sally, please, you have to believe me," Molly pleaded desperately, "I know he looks vicious, but he's really kind and gentle. He's smart and funny, too!" Molly paused, a smile on her face as her heart fluttered for a moment. "He's my friend."

A look of horror swept across Moriarty's face.

 _He couldn't have found someone to love him back, could he?_ he thought fearfully.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually cared about this monster," James growled threateningly.

Molly whipped around to look at him. "He's no monster, James," she barked back. "You are!"

The crowd gasped. James simmered with rage as he seized Molly's wrist. "I've heard of the dark effects of magic, but I've never before seen it with my own eyes!" He pulled Molly's arm up high so that she couldn't move away. "This is a threat to our very existence!" he continued further. "We can't have her running off to warn the beast!" Turning to her, he looked deep into her face, his eyes sunken back, dead and emotionless, and he smiled. He tossed her at the warden, who opened the cart back up and threw Molly inside. Bartholomew broke her fall, clinging to her desperately and kissing her head.

From outside, Moriarty still clutched the mirror, waving it around to relight the anger that Molly had interrupted. "This creature will curse us all if we don't stop him." He jumped on the side of the cart and gesticulated wildly. "Well I say we kill the beast!!"

"No!" cried Molly.

The villagers began discussing amongst themselves. "We're not safe until he's dead."

"He'll come stalking us at night!"

"Set to sacrifice our children to his monstrous appetite!"

"He'll wreak havoc on our village if we let him wander free!"

Moriarty jumped off the cart, grabbing a torch and mounting his horse. "So it's time to take some action, boys. It's time to follow me!" A synchronised stomping was the music of the mob leaving, their torches, swords, and bows raised high.

Molly sat hugging her knees, shaking with fear and crying into the fabric of the yellow dress Anthea had found her. Her time in the castle felt like a lifetime ago. "This is all my fault," she whimpered. "I have to warn him!" Gathering her strength, Molly stood up and looked for a way out.

" _Warn_ him?" Bartholomew sputtered. "How did you get _away_ from him?"

Molly put her hand on her father's knee. "He let me go, papa. He sent me back to you!"

Her father held a look of confusion. "I don't understand. That horrible beast?"

Molly smiled. "His name is Sherlock. He's so different now, papa. I wish you could see him now. He's kind and gentle and caring."

There was a long moment as Bartholomew thought. At last he chuckled and managed a weak smile, reaching out to cup Molly's cheek. "My little Molly. So kind, so strong, so brave. I've always tried to protect my little girl... probably too much."

Molly covered his hand with her own. "I understand," she whispered, and pressed a long kiss to his hand. "Will you help me?"

"Molly, it's dangerous!" he pressed.

But Molly knew her father. When she was younger, he would spin tales of how he would like to be a Pirate King or a rugged adventurer discovering a new civilisation and being thrown into danger. Despite his calm front, Molly knew he had a heart for danger and adventure. With a grin, she answered, "Yes. Yes it is."

His smile broke through and she knew he was hooked. He thought for a moment and looked at her over his glasses. "I could try to pick the lock," he whispered. They both stood and Bartholomew reached his arms out the small window and felt for the lock. "Now, I'd need something small and sharp."

Molly felt around her dress for anything matching the description. The boning in her dress was unretrievable, but the pin holding in her hair would do. She promptly pulled it out and handed it to her father.

Years of making geared melody boxes made quick work with the lock, which sprung open and they both rushed out.

"Now go, Molly! Take Philippe! You must reach the Beast before James does."

"But papa what about you?"

Bartholomew held Molly's face in his hands and kissed her cheek. "Don't worry about me. I'll take care of myself. Now go: save Sherlock!"

Without further prompting, Molly ran to Philippe. "I love you papa!" she called as she mounted.

"I love you, too, Molly!" he answered as she galloped away.

Sherlock sat perched on the edge of his tallest tower, unmoved since Molly disappeared from his sight. Mycroft had come up to warn him about the approaching mob, but he had sent him away. He could hear them fighting below him.

 _Fighting for what?_ he wondered. _It doesn't matter now. Just let them come._

Through the shouting of his fighting servants and the howling blizzard, Sherlock heard soft footsteps crunching the snow.

"So you're Sherlock the Beast. Molly's told me all about you."

His heart broken and without hope, Sherlock didn't bother to look over his shoulder. Moriarty advanced on the vulnerable creature, cocking his pistol and taking aim.

"Here we are at last:" he continued, "you and me, Sherlock, and our problem— the final problem."

Slowly, Sherlock listened to the voice. He had heard it before and only one man came into his head as he stood up and whirled around.

" _Moriarty_ ," he whispered in horror, but the pistol had gone off. The bullet pierced Sherlock in the shoulder and he roared in pain, stumbling backwards and falling off of the tower. The pier below caught his fall, the tiles being ripped off as Sherlock sunk his claws into the roof to stop his plummet. With a grin, Moriarty descended a level by the staircase to catch up to him. Just as he arrived, Sherlock had leapt on the platform, landing harshly at Moriarty's feet.

As he struggled to hoist himself up, Moriarty declared, "All my life I've been searching for distractions, Sherlock. And you were the best distraction of all but now I don't even have you. Cause I've beaten you!"

"No," Sherlock huffed as he stabled himself and clutched his shoulder, "we're just alike. I am you: prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall no disappoint you."

They had stepped closer together, duelling eye-to-eye but neither making a move. Sherlock towered over Moriarty, who scanned his face.

"Nah," he mumbled, frowning. "You talk big... _nah_. You're not me. You're boring... you're on the side of the Angels."

Sherlock's eyes lightened and his breath faltered. "Then... if I'm on the side of the Angels then I've won! I've beaten your curse! The game is over!"

Shaking his head, Moriarty frowned, as if offended, and stalked away. "No, no, no. It's too easy. It's _too easy_." He walked back up to Sherlock and screamed into his face, "There is no game DOOFUS!!!"

Sherlock remained silent, his mind turning as Moriarty changed the rules in front of him.

"That game was meaningless! Utterly meaningless! You didn't really think I would tell you all the rules, did you? I'm disappointed in you! I'm disappointed!"

With a faltering voice, Sherlock started, "Well then—"

"Well then how do you beat me? Win the game? Change back?" He flung his arms wide. "Molly Hooper!!"

A string of silence was held between them. Moriarty was grinning widely as Sherlock frowned, eyes full of thought.

"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness: you want everything to be clever. You want everything to be about you. Not for one second did you think that there was another player on the board. That's why I had to do it."

Sherlock blinked. "Do it? Do what?" They're eyes were locked and the answered was revealed. "Ah," Sherlock whispered. "The curse."

"I was bored, Sherlock. And you were my perfect distraction; the perfect story: Sir Boast-a-lot, the bravest and cleverest knight of the Round Table. He had everything he ever wanted, but soon, he began to grow tired of what he had. Even his servants couldn't make him happy. I thought it would do you good to play my game. It was all a fairytale, Sherlock. And a pretty Grimm one, too.

"You see, not only did you have to prove to me that you're on the side of the Angels, but you had to get one to fall in love with you. Too bad you let her go. And let me tell you, she's not coming back." He grinned insanely. "I made sure of it."

In one moment, Sherlock grabbed Moriarty by the coat and walked him back to the edge of a turret, holding him over the edge and dangling him above the spiked tiers below. Sherlock shook him and snarled while Moriarty looked unalarmed.

"You're insane," Sherlock hissed.

With a hint of a smile, he replied, "You're just getting that now?"

Another shake made Moriarty whoop, clinging onto the Beast's sleeves.

"I should drop you," Sherlock growled, his fingers loosening around the fabric of Moriarty's jacket.

"Let me give you a little warning," he began, grinning and showing all of his teeth, "Your friends will die if you drop me. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, _Molly_... _Everyone_. If you kill me now there's no undoing the curse. You'll damn everyone you've ever cared about if you let me go."

For a long time Sherlock held onto Moriarty with a fire in his eyes. The two sides of his soul bickered, the one already plummeted into darkness urging him to let go while the one basking in the light of Molly's memory begging him to save them both.

 _Do it,_ egged the Beast. _He took Molly away from us, we have to kill him!_

 _Molly_ _stood by our side and saved us when she had no reason to!_ countered the human side of him. _She would have saved Moriarty._

_Well Molly's not here right now. He killed her! So do it. Drop him!_

Just as the fabric of Moriarty's red hunting coat began to slip from his fingers, Sherlock heard his name being called across the way. He turned his head and, like the sun breaking through the blackest of storm clouds, saw Molly's yellow dress shining against his black tower.

"Sherlock!" she cried, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the broken wall.

"Molly," Sherlock murmured, breathless. He heard Moriarty suddenly snigger.

"You love her? You can't love her. You're a _psychopath_."

If the time with Molly taught him anything, it was that Sherlock was no longer the person he was. He knew what it was to love and care about another person. His eyes relaxed and the fire in them was quenched. Sherlock pulled Moriarty back over the platform and spat into his face, "I am _not_ a psychopath. I'm a high functioning sociopath."

With a loud shout, Sherlock threw Moriarty down on the platform with a resolve not to kill him. Molly was with him again, and he didn't need anything else.

"Go," he hissed at Moriarty, who was frozen in shock and didn't move. There was a fear in Moriarty's eye that Sherlock couldn't decipher.

"Go!"

Finally Moriarty scrambled and made for the staircase that spiralled around the turret. Sherlock could finally turn his attention to Molly. Her gloves had been discarded, her hair was let down, her dress ripped, and her breathing shallow, but Sherlock had never seen her happier.

"Molly!" he cried. "You came back!" He made ready to jump across to her— despite the huge gap between them, when a vicious quake knocked both of them to their knees. A large part of the castle wall crumbled, revealing Sherlock's broken bedroom and the rose still on its pedestal. A crack ran under the table and threatened to drop it.

"Sherlock," Molly cried with a pointed finger, "the rose!"

If the rose was destroyed, it wouldn't matter if Molly actually loved him or not. Sherlock began climbing to reach it in time before it fell, the castle crumbling around him. A soft click made him turn around to see Moriarty cocking his pistol and taking aim. Not at him, but at Molly.

Time froze for Sherlock. Several options were presented to him in that moment:

He could save the rose, and thus save himself from even the possibility of becoming stuck in the body he was.

He could save Molly, throwing himself in the way of the bullet and killing himself but saving the woman who gave him joy, hope, and meaning.

But Molly was too far away and he wouldn't be able to get in the way fast enough. A third option presented itself. It wouldn't guarantee his life, but it did guarantee Molly's.

Without a second thought, Sherlock grasped the third option and decided for it. He dropped from the pier he was on and ran towards Moriarty. The gun went off but missed its target as Sherlock collided with Moriarty. They both tumbled backwards, their momentum too great and sending them both over the edge of the turret.

"No!!" Molly screamed. She ran down the tower staircase, tears streaming down her face and tripping over steps in her haste. Lying on his side, Molly found Sherlock in the front courtyard. Moriarty was nowhere to be seen.

The castle was quiet, the angry mob haven been driven out by all of the servants, who gathered in the doorway of the castle. Molly rolled Sherlock onto his back, a trail of blood down the side of his head and his icy eyes still open.

"Sherlock," Molly whimpered. His eyes moved over to her face and she gasped.

"Molly," he managed, his voice broken and nearly gone. "You came back."

"Of course I came back!" Molly gushed, her own voice chopped with tears. She held his hands tightly. "I couldn't let James... oh gosh... I'll never leave again!"

Sherlock chuckled and gasped. "I'm afraid it's my turn to leave now. Perhaps it's better this way..."

Molly shook her head fervently. "Don't talk like that!" She helplessly adjusted the jabot around his neck and brushed the fur out of his face, picking several strands out of the blood on his forehead. "You'll be alright. We're together now. Everything will be fine."

In between gasps, Sherlock sputtered, "At least I got... to see you... one last time." He shut his eyes momentarily, a weak smile on his lips. "I did it. I saved Molly Hooper. I thought Moriarty had slipped up; that he made a mistake. Because the one person I thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person who mattered the most. You made it all possible." With a failing strength, he reached up to cup Molly's cheek, and she heavily leaned into his touch. "But you can't do this again, can you?" he murmured. Molly felt his hand grow heavy and soon it dropped. His head weighted back in her hand as his once colourful eyes clouded grey.

Molly lost her breath. "No," she uttered. "Come back!" She shrieked with sobs, tears dripping down her face. She gently shook Sherlock, hoping to simply wake him up. "Please," she pleaded. Screwing her eyes shut, Molly hung her head and curled up into herself. She laid her head on Sherlock's chest, fisting his white silk shirt.

As the servants watched from the doorway, John held Mary tightly in his arms. Suddenly she stiffened in his touch.

"Mary?" he inquired. Her wings wrapped around herself and merged into the ceramic handle of a common feather duster. John gasped and gently laid her down, crying softly, "Oh, my darling Mary."

Behind them, Anthea was walking towards Mycroft, the drapes that made up her face becoming stiffer and stiffer.

"Mycroft, you were so brave," she admired as her cupboard doors where closing. "Goodbye my love."

"Anthe? Anthea!" Mycroft cried helplessly.

Lestrade delicately carried Mrs. Hudson and Archie, their porcelain faces blank, and set them on the tea cart. Straightening back out, he creaked once and ceased moving.

Mycroft and John looked at each other. Their time had come. Mycroft made his way towards the only friend left, but the gears in his body where clicking violently against it.

"John," he began, the hands on his face moving, "I can't... speak." He gave a few chirrs and clangs.

John chuckled as best he could. "It's ok, mate."

Mycroft straightened out and stood proudly, straining to say, "John, my friend, it was an honour to serve with you." With that, his eyes closed and the gears inside him clicked lifelessly.

John bowed. "The honour... was mine." He spun and lifted his arms to the sky, the metal filling the rest of his body. The candelabra toppled to a stop and the small flames were extinguished. The air was silent with the souls of the lost servants.

Molly kneeled amongst them, weeping into Sherlock's coat. She lifted her head and looked at Sherlock once more. "Please come back," she whimpered. "Please don't leave me! I... love you."

Realisation dawned.

"I love you!" she cried. He remained motionless, and slowly she leaned forward to place a delicate kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

Curled up once again, Molly watched dark mist gather at her feet. When she looked up, she saw it surrounding them. It swirled closer and closer, slowly enveloping the lifeless body of Sherlock. Molly felt him move and she stood up. The mist carried him, turned him over, and pulled him upright. He was completely covered by black mist— the blackest Molly had ever seen.

A tiny crack in the swirling cocoon let out a shining gold ray. More began to burst through, and the mist slowly dissipated. Soon it was a swirl of pure, golden light. It lowered to the ground and revealed a man.

His back face Molly as he held out his hands, slowly moving his fingers and touching his chest and face. The back of his head was full of raven curls. The clothes on his shoulders hung on a tall, thin frame.

Molly watched with wide eyes as the man turned around.

His face was thin with sharp cheekbones. His lips were full with a smile unlike any other she had seen. His pale skin was a contrast to his long black hair that flicked out at the ends.

"Molly," he gushed, his voice a deep baritone. Her mind reeling and still in a state of disbelief, Molly watched him curiously. He took a step forward.

Any doubt she had before was erased when she saw his eyes. They were blue, and green, and gold, and silver, but most of all they were joyful. They were full of hope. They were Sherlock's eyes!

They stepped towards each other, stopping when they were only a foot away. Cautiously, Molly reached up her hand to touch his face and feel his hair. He was exactly like her drawing she made all that time ago. She finally smiled, and they shared an excited laugh.

As he reached up to hold her face, they leaned in and shared a kiss, Molly tightly wrapping her arms around his neck with a hand in his hair and Sherlock holding her close by her waist.

A rush of what could only be described as magic flooded the land and melted the snow that cursed the forest and rebuilt the broken castle, changing its black stones back to its original golden glory. The servants were caught in a swirl of gold and returned to their human forms. Lestrade helped Mrs. Hudson and Archie who were precariously balanced on the small teacart as Mycroft shared a shameless kiss with Anthea. John knelt and pulled Mary from amongst a sea of feathers, kissing her lovingly and creating a small spark on top his head, to which Mary laughed and quickly patted it out.

"Oi, mate!" John called, interrupting Sherlock and Molly's long kiss. They laughed and, hand in hand, joined the returned servants.

"Hello, my old friend," he cheered, embracing John. Mary couldn't help but do the same to Molly.

"You saved our lives!" Mary exclaimed.

"Indeed you did," remarked Mycroft, stepping up to Molly with Anthea linked on his arm. "And for that, we are forever in your service." He bowed and Molly blushed and curtsied.

Archie broke through the group and hugged Molly's legs, Mrs. Hudson following him.

"Molly! It's me! Archie!" he cried ecstatically. Laughing, Molly picked him up and spun him.

Sherlock watched with a wide smile as she looked up at him. He held her hand and knelt before her.

"Molly, will you do me the greatest honour of agreeing to become my wife?"

Molly giggled uncontrollably, covering her mouth for a moment before shouting, "Yes! Of course I'll marry you, Sherlock!"

Standing, Sherlock scooped Molly up and spun her around. Upon delivering the news to her father, Bartholomew had whooped with delight. He had been standing outside of their house looking for any sign of her.

As the Royal carriage had wheeled in, he looked at it in hope and anticipation. But when Molly stepped out, the biggest smile on her face, his sighed and ran to her. He hugged her tightly and vowed never to let her out of his sight again. That's when Sherlock stepped out of the carriage.

"Papa, this is Sherlock," Molly said, trying hard to hide her smile but failing to do so. Sherlock, on the other hand, frowned and looked guilty.

"Monsieur Hooper, please accept my sincerest apologies. Upon our first meeting, I was someone whom I'm no longer proud of. Since then I have learned what it is to love and," he paused to glance at Molly and his face flushed, "to be loved. I do hope you forgive me and give your blessing to take your daughter's hand in marriage."

Bartholomew gasped. He looked at Molly. Then he looked at Sherlock. He gasped again. "Oh!" he sputtered. "Oh, my boy!" He grabbed Sherlock's face and kissed his cheek.

"Papa!" Molly chided with a laugh, Sherlock looking slightly dazed.

Bartholomew murmured an absentminded apology, too caught in the moment to be sorry. "My dear boy, of _course_ I give you my blessing! You've returned her to me twice now, and from what my daughter says, I have no doubt that you will take care of her."

Molly giggled and hugged her father, and Sherlock did the same. They rode together in the carriage back to the castle, and Molly and Sherlock recalled what had happened to Bartholomew, who waited with anxious ears.

The wedding was planned, and played through like a fairytale. Anthea and Mary dressed Molly in the beautiful yellow ball gown and gloves while John and Mycroft dressed Sherlock in the blue, gold lined jacket, with a gold vest underneath. Half of Molly's hair was pinned back and wrapped in a gold ribbon and Sherlock's long hair was tied back with a blue one. The bride and groom had their first dance, gliding across the ballroom just like they had done that one fateful night.

Bartholomew smiled and watched his daughter and son-in-law. As the two came towards him after the dance, giggling to each other, Bartholomew held out a small wrapped box.

"Consider it a wedding present," he said, looking at her through his glasses. Molly carefully pulled off the lid and pulled out a small, hexagonal box. Slowly lifting the lid, a twinkling melody began playing. It was the ballerina music box that Molly had caught her father working on what seemed like ages ago. There was only one change: a tall, dark haired figure stood by the ballerina, holding her hand and aiding her to balance in an attitude devant.

Molly gasped and covered her mouth. "It's beautiful," she breathed. "Thank you, papa!"

"And also," he added, a sad smile on his face, "a birthday present. I told you I wanted it to be perfect."

"It is, papa," she said with a sincere smile. They returned to the dance, holding each other close in their arms.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked after catching Molly's odd stare.

"It's weird seeing you clean shaven." She quipped, "How would you feel about growing a beard?"

With a hearty laugh, Sherlock pulled Molly to him, kissing her lovingly.

They were interrupted by a banging knock at the door, and Sherlock turned, and opened his eyes. It took him several moments to take in what was around him. The crackling fire and the fizzing experiment in the kitchen, as well as the bullet shot smiley face on the wall and the cow skull with headphones.

_221B Baker Street..._

Another knock at the door and Sherlock stood up to open it. Behind it stood John, Mary, and Molly.

"Hey mate," John said, walking in a brushing off his snow-covered coat. "Sorry we're back so late. We had to pick up more milk."

"You know Sherlock, you should've come with us," Mary said, moving to the kitchen to make tea. "It was a good movie. It really reminded me of some people I know." She threw a knowing glance at the two remaining in the living room. Molly looked up at him.

"It was called 'Beauty and the Beast,'" she said.

Sherlock laughed. "That's why it reminded her of us," he said, low enough for only the two of them hear. He leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Maybe for our first official date as a couple you would like to see it again with me."

With a smile and a flushed face, Molly answered, "I'd love to!"

Sherlock grinned and walked to the window, picking up his violin and plucking a tune as his friends gathered for tea on the couch. He stood in front of the fire, playing the melody that he could still remember the words to:

_Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme: Beauty and the Beast._

Sherlock stopped suddenly with a silent gasp as he spotted a small melody box on the mantle. On it stood a small ballerina with her leg held out and a tall man holding her hand.

As he turned to inquire the others about it, they were happily chatting and paying him no mind. With one more long look at it, he shook his head, chuckling to himself, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stick around the my next cross over: The Strange Case of Dr. Rush and Mr. Gold!


End file.
